Even I don't know what the hell this is.

I was sat there staring at a blank text box, no idea what to write, just as in yesteryear. So I found myself scouring the internet for topics, just as in yesteryear. And I did what I always do; I thought "these things aren't what you want to write about. What you're doing here is searching for a topic that can be steered back to whatever it is you actually want to write but for some reason daren't." Very true, so next I thought, "ok, but what is it that I want to write but daren't?" No idea. So then I remembered that time when I had had a beer and suddenly you couldn't stop me writing, but what I was writing was drivel (even moreso than usual). And then I thought, "what beer have we got in?" Probably just bitter (bleurgh) and anyway, is it worth cracking a tinnie every time you get writer's block? That way alcoholism lies, or - at the rate and severity I experience writer's block - that way severe liver failure within three months lies. Many great writers have found inspiration in a bottle, but they were great writers first, probably. Either way, I don't even like beer that much and drinking myself silly over my dying dreams seems much more a 36-years-old thing to do than a 26-years-old thing. And then I thought the biggest question(s) of them all: "Why is this even your dream anyway? Can you identify the moment you realised it was? What led to it? Which childhood experiences steered you this way? How come it's such a big deal to you? And since it apparently is why are you too crippled with (totally justified) fear of your own inadequacy to do a damn thing about it? Isn't this more likely to be an expression of some deep seated longing for something else you can't define?" Probably. And then I remembered how I hated writing as a kid. I may not be totally made up of that kid any more, and he may have never experienced life the same way I do, but surely we share some things basic to us that have to inform our wants and tastes? Apparently no, the only thing we know for sure about kid me that corresponds to present me is that we both remember bits of even younger kid me's life (kid me remembers more than me me does, of course). So who are we to each other? We might as well be two completely random people who have never met but have been implanted with similar memories. It's part of the society that I live in that you have to be all about your work (even when you hate it), so it follows that which job I want must be a big part of my personality. How can a desire so fundamental to me be to do something I used to hate doing? Why do I love something I'm shit at? Why do I feel an unabating need to not be shit at it and yet an almost physically intense fear of trying to get better?
My next thought was, "why am I writing this down?" Unclear. My next action was to have been a positive one but time's passage had sapped my energy and so I simply added a conclusion, posted the gargantuan, unstructured mess of a paragraph on the internet and got back to anxiety and despair, my only true talents.