I've constructed the first sentence in my head a dozen or more times, and it's never come out like this. It was supposed to be more grandiose, more meaningful. Instead, it's a mere admission that I have failed in my quest.
Using that failure as a starting point I move onto the next paragraph, which should expand upon the themes introduced in the first. But those are hardly worthy of such expansion, so I continue typing words in the hope that something will emerge.
The words are pretty—some of them, at least—but say nothing. I am dazzling with bullshit, and if I'm to be completely honest, I'm not even dazzling.
I think back to what I'd originally wanted to say. It had something to do with inspiration and self-doubt. But I wasn't feeling inspired enough to pursue the thought, which filled me with self-doubt. Why write what I was already living at that very moment?
By the time the fifth paragraph arrives I have proposed no hypothesis, advanced no arguments in favor of or against said hypothesis, or noted anything of substance. This is a good metaphor for writing and life in general, although the realization that it's a good metaphor sinks me further into depression.
Maybe the sixth paragraph will be better. Nope.
At this point I've abandoned all hope, which gives me a new place to start. This is my “fuck it” moment where I decide any movement is good movement. I've had many of these in my writing career, going back to college.
My first such moment occurred in junior high school. I was supposed to give a speech and tried reading from cards. I kept stumbling over the words and was so embarrassed by my ineptitude that I decided to just talk. I dazzled with bullshit.