She hated the sight of it. A nobody getting such accolades. A shoddy piece of work being proudly flaunted and people liberally, unthinkingly showering it with compliments. She was disgusted with the mediocracy, and with herself for making such judgements.
What gave her the right to make such evaluations? Did she consider herself too good? She shuddered. To say that she didn't consider herself better than most she knew would be affectation. She shuddered again. She was drained, not just with the judgements she kept doling out for others, but also, and in fact more, with the judgements she kept doling out for herself for having made those judgements.
She was even a tad envious. She, who was afarid of her own past successes so much that she now rarely created anything new. She was envious of these people who had no idea that their work was mediocre and could take undiluted pride in it. She didn't have the guts to create something less than spectacular and live with it. Oh, so she believed she had had spectacular success in the past, didn't she? The sense of exhaustion was pulsating again.
She knew the other path, of not creating anything at all, would lead to stagnation. She knew she was stagnating. She didn't need anyone to come and analyse her mind for her nor she did need anyone to tell her how to get out of it. She knew, she understood it all, and she only hated herself more for it for she wasn't able to change anything with all that ocean of self-awareness. Underneath all the ramblings, the throbbing grew and grew in intensity: Drained.
What gave her the right to make such evaluations? Did she consider herself too good? She shuddered. To say that she didn't consider herself better than most she knew would be affectation. She shuddered again. She was drained, not just with the judgements she kept doling out for others, but also, and in fact more, with the judgements she kept doling out for herself for having made those judgements.
She was even a tad envious. She, who was afarid of her own past successes so much that she now rarely created anything new. She was envious of these people who had no idea that their work was mediocre and could take undiluted pride in it. She didn't have the guts to create something less than spectacular and live with it. Oh, so she believed she had had spectacular success in the past, didn't she? The sense of exhaustion was pulsating again.
She knew the other path, of not creating anything at all, would lead to stagnation. She knew she was stagnating. She didn't need anyone to come and analyse her mind for her nor she did need anyone to tell her how to get out of it. She knew, she understood it all, and she only hated herself more for it for she wasn't able to change anything with all that ocean of self-awareness. Underneath all the ramblings, the throbbing grew and grew in intensity: Drained.
