How did I go so wrong?

This most recent blog surfing (trolling?) spree has led to a more desparate panic than I have felt before. I've realised that:

a) The sorry excuses for writing that I've been perpetrating over the last few days (months? years?) are in fact, pointless. Why? Because a writer, more than anyone else, needs to keep his/her eyes and ears open to all that the world contains- to perceive, to understand, to elucidate, to just fucking have something to write about. I don't, and what is worse, I couldn't care less. I don't know if it's an indifference that comes with the territory that I'm in right now, but at any rate, it is time to stop fooling myself, and get on with making a (very short) list of things that I can actually do, without screwing up, and stick only to doing those things.

b) All that could have been mine, that once was in my reach, I have destroyed. All the potential that I ever had, I have wantonly, cruelly, systematically, replaced with all the representations of ordinariness that I could find. I have done such a good job that no one could now be more ordinary than me. You could search me with the brightest light, and you would never find that promise they said I had as a child.

Does all this seem melodramatic? Does there seem to be no need for such fatalism?

What is wrong, you will ask, with being ordinary? An ordinary techie, an ordinary wife, an ordinary woman?

And I will say, nothing, except that I wanted to be an extraordinary writer.

The pathos of the situation makes me want to weep, but I find that I cannot even care enough to cry.