Letter From the Jailer #4—You Aren’t Creative

I'm not that nice.

I’m not that nice.

In a sluggish progression, your creativity drains away. No muse, no love, no inspiration. Writing, creating, building, making, nothing is there for you. Find meaning in trivial tasks. Obsess over nonsense.

Passion is nonsense, and trust is a weakness. Open yourself to pain and ridicule; you deserve it. the loss of your drive is a natural consequence of your sloth.

There is work to be done, but why bother? Work makes you money so you can eat and sleep and wake up and work. Life is a donut on a string hanging from a pole on your head. You’ll never reach it, never embody it.

You’re alone, friendless. Those who love you do so from a distance. Those who hate you keep it to themselves, so you’ll never know who they are. Judgment and ridicule are the sum and total of your docket for entertainment.

Go. Try to create. Embrace yourself, and love yourself through it all. It’s all pointless. You’re still under the wet blanket of failure, behind the bars of despair.

Ignore me as long as you can. You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I.


As ever, Letters from the Jailer are a summary of the things my brain tells me. Thankfully, they don’t often translate into real-world problems. Thank God. But yeah, my brain is really good at hating me.

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