utterly pointless rant

It's one of those days when I feel like I have so much to say I don't know where to start... and then, maybe none of it really matters or is worth saying anyway. I am suffering from a serious 'wandering mind' syndrome.;) I've been meaning to post something here for the whole weekend... only the intended topic of the post has changed so many times already I have really no idea what it should be anymore. It's not that anything remarkable happened - it's just that my introspective mode is in overdrive, while my expressive abilities seem to have gone on vacation. I hate when that happens. And it seems to happen every time I actually have time for writing. As soon as I think Oh my God, I don't have to go anywhere or do anything important today, I can actually sit down and read to my heart's content, and maybe even WRITE something - my mind seems to draw a blank. Or there is such an overwhelming chaos of thoughts and ideas in my head that I get completely lost trying to follow. And I can't possibly decide what I should hunt for through that chaos... so usually I just give up and only read other people's posts/fics instead, sighing with envy at how well some can express themselves. And wondering what the hell is wrong with me. It's been like that since my teens. I've always had this extremely strong urge to write, and never knew what to actually do with it - other than whining away in some secret journal that I subsequently destroyed, or boring my friends to death with long-winded, exhibitionistic letters that probably only convinced them I needed therapy.;) I live through words - they are like air and water to me. And I feel incredibly frustrated when they fail me. Sometimes I think it must be a cruel joke of fate to give someone such a deep craving, and then deny them the ability to ever fulfill it. But I am dramatizing... again. There is enough good fiction - as well as nonfiction - in the world; why should I worry about not being capable of creating more? There is enough to keep me busy reading until the day I die... except that when I read, I get inspired, and it hurts even more not to have the power to do anything with that inspiration, except feel it churning over and over uselessly in my stomach. Not sure if I'm making any sense here, but that's how it feels - and I have gotten so used to the feeling over the years that I actually anticipate it as soon as I start thinking about writing something. So I get discouraged and frustrated right at the beginning... and that may be why I can't fully commit to it, but what does it matter anyway? The circle is complete, and I'm right in the middle of it like a stupid guinea pig running amok to no purpose. And yet the craving remains. And it's days like these I am actually almost grateful for the constant lack of time...