Every thought not matching to his is a sacrilege that he wants to condemn. Every word not appreciated is an insult to his sweat, his intellect and his very existence.
Every expression of his is in competition with his best. If it does not satisfy, he's left with blank spaces, crosses, naught and some more wasted words. Every expression that does not satisfy is is a disappointment that he wishes to overcome.
He is like the father who wishes his son the world and in turn expects the universe from him. His disappointment reflects that of a guardian with shattered hopes from his offspring.
Every admirable utterance, sound, phrase needs to evolve from him, from his vast mind. He is selfish, yes. His thirst for the best is never quenched- it just expands and causes him more pain.
The inability to render something astounding is a handicap to his entity. He is like the insecure, conscious teenager in the presence of hundreds of brand- attired colleagues. He fears he will be judged, mocked, insulted. His ego slowly begins the process of coating itself with the rust of humiliation.
He no longer wants to face the world, he no longer wants to remain.
But suddenly, inspiration creeps from behind and thrusts into the face of the unsuspecting frustrated artist, the words of spring.
Their freshness, and creative essence proliferating never ending joy within his soul. He is the supreme once again.
Then pours in the confidence, the love, the extreme ecstasy that knows no bounds and multiplies again and again and again....
He revels in the sunshine.
He realizes that he wants to experience it again- the ultimate supremacy. So he sits down to create that magic once more.
And just as the tip of his quill touches the surface of the paper, he stops.
He stops as he cannot find anymore words.
He tries, tries so hard- it is the unimaginable pain and torture that he has to endure once again.
Nothing seems good enough.
And thus, continues the drama in the life of a writer. The same cycle is repeated.
Oh, you say that I embody the beauty of literature. Therefore, it's a boon.
But tell me, is it not a curse too?