You know I feel you and completely identify. I loved the line about brining all this with you into every experience (especially works of art) and feeling that great-terrible thing well up inside you. Is it envy? Is it jealousy? Even at 36, I find that for all my looking and searching and writhing, I’m still that 11-year-old fat kid just wanting to picked by the popular kids.
And it’s impossible to enjoy things this way. It’s impossible to love people this way because everything is either an indictment or validation (mostly indictments) of me.
I don’t have an answer. I just know that it sucks to STILL (after 36-fucking-years) have that voice in my head that responds to everything with, Why couldn’t I have made that? Why DIDN’T I make that? I will only be valuable if I make something as good as this.