Today, once again, I hate all my works. 

I reread bits and pieces, write out sentence after a sentence, and nothing seems to please me. 

I want to take everything down, stop, and forget that I even tried.

I used to think that once enough people read and appreciate my work, once enough people tell me it’s good and interesting, once enough -

But there’s never enough. Because it’s not really about the numbers. 

I thought that my insecurities would go away, disappear the more I wrote, but they only have grown worse. 

Now, instead of wondering why people don’t like my work, I keep wondering why they do?

How can something be so enjoyable and so torturous at the same time?

I feel so happy when writing, I don’t mind writing for just one person either, yet I feel so heartbroken once I find my writing to be lacking.

A mistake here, a misspelled word there, a misuse of a meaning and it all adds up. The sentences become nonsensical, jumbled together, unrefined, crude, and then the repetitions repetitions repetitions...

At days like these I feel sad. 

To do something well, shouldn’t you love and appreciate yourself more? 

My works aren’t perfect, don’t have to be perfect, they don’t even have to be good.

Self awareness and criticism is good but self hate?

What a crippling emotion.