Our soundtrack for today's Fit: Star Wars, Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith, by John Williams.

The futility of great thoughts.

Once upon a time, I juggled the destines of entire worlds with nothing more than a few paragraphs. I ran black holes through solar systems, sent alien invasions to devour and destroy, reordered fate, caused massive riots involving millions of people, turned people into artificial intelligences, turned artificial intelligences into people, portrayed 500 year old ghosts and 800 year old Jedi Masters. I turned nebulae into stars. I threw ships thousands of lightyears.

Now I'm wondering if maybe I've run out of gas at last. For good this time. Maybe I've said all I'm going to say and there's nothing left.

What's the point in going on with all this? I don't have any big ideas, and even when I do write stuff it's about as original as clip art. Generic. Playing with plot devices and themes that were antique before I was born. It works for George Lucas but I'm not George. It's all been done. I'm not smart enough, educated enough, well-read enough and original enough to do anything but rehash stuff years out of date. Even when I do it all seems so trite and meaningless.

I go between being disgusted at my overwhelming ego and realizing how completely, utterly unsignificant I am. Disgusted because I have so little reason to be egotistical about anything. I know absolutely nothing. I don't know enough to do anything but stupid, shallow, repetitive, thinly-veiled retellings of my own life.

I haven't written anything that means anything since I finished Aquaria nearly 2 years ago.

The ideas I have now, skeletal as they are, aren't really compelling at all. Why can't I gen up any motivation to write anything worth writing? Why can't I think of anything?

I just don't get it anymore. What's wrong with me?