What's the point?

There is nothing I can say that hasn’t already been written more eloquently, poetically, or distinctively than anything I can come up with. I don’t have a gift for startling wordplay or imagery that blows the mind. I feel like every word I type is more cliché, more trite than the word before: conservative, complacent. Dull. There is no luminescence, no scintillation. Every word, while maybe nice, is just that. There isn’t even any sort of new idea or premise that redeems my writing. You think perhaps I’m too hard on myself? Well, yeah. I am a bibliophile, after all.

Now, this isn’t a play for sympathy and it’s not false modesty – I’m not expecting you to come up saying “That’s so not true Avi, you’re awesome! Don’t be so hard on yourself!” PLEASE, whoever may read this (there are a precious few), don’t feel obligated to tell me something I don’t believe in. I will feel warm and fuzzy for a few minutes and then assume you are saying it to make me feel warm and fuzzy. So don’t bother.

I am also done as I have nothing more to say. If I ever did.