There have been many, many attempts by him to get this idea out of his brain. It morphs, it changes shape, it can never come out perfectly.
He tries to write; the words don't come. They look childish when set before him. Not enough prose; not enough planning; too many plot holes. They all are discarded. Planning in notebooks; reams of paper by his desk. Text files upon text file in his recycle bin on his desktop. He gives up on planning and wings it, but cries after emptying his recycle bin when he decides he's had enough. He will never be a writer.
He decides to sketch; to draw. He thinks they look good, but some things won't turn out right. The tutorials bore, confuse, and anger him; it hurts to listen, to sit and study anatomy. He is no doctor; he cannot visualize. He tries to teach himself but grows frustrated. How much longer can he try and try to draw something over and over and over again? The marks from the erased lines ruin the drawing; ruin the paper. He rubs furiously, the paper crumples, dragged by his eraser. He throws it into the garbage can and bangs his head on the desk before sobbing some more. He will never be a drawer.
He tries 3D modeling. He's having fun, but limitations begin to appear. The software gets more and more finnicky as his hacky workarounds make things look worse and worse. He begins to grow frustrated, slamming his mouse onto the desk, or pounding on the desk and letting out a low groan of anger when it acts up. The files continue to fill his recycle bin as the text documents did. He empties it, and lies awake in bed that night. He convinces himself he's not depressed; he isn't numb. He feels all the hurt and anger he is going through right now. He will never be a modeller.
The idea grows, and he sees the flaws. It's nothing but a childish amalgamation of all the things he liked. He sees video games, movies, books, all combined and flowing. He can see nothing that is wholly original. He feels that foreboding; that weight upon his chest. His life's work has been nothing more than a pipe dream. It was never his, and never would've been enjoyed by anyone but him. He will never be an artist.
His shoulders ache. He needs more gauze; it's on the list. He'll wrap it in paper towels in the meantime. He breathes deeply. He did it again, even though he said he wouldn't. He looks at how pathetic he is in the mirror, shirtless with bloodstained hands and arms. He wants to punch it, to break it and leave it in pieces. To never see the person in the reflection again. He is as ugly as he feels, even though he has been told he is beautiful. They're liars, all of them. They can't be bothered to tell him the truth, so he has to pick up the slack for them, and remind himself what he truly is. He picks up the blade again, and tears roll down his cheeks as he raises it to the clotted mass upon his shoulder. He will never feel beautiful.
The darkness consumes him. He is not depressed, just sick. Sick in the head; mentally ill. He feels his friends would rather not be around him. He feels his very presence makes them uncomfortable. He needs things expained to him, and they're probably getting sick and tired of it. He has a [crushby juliet on one of them, but he feels like they hate him most of all. Even in parties, he feels unrelentingly alone. He wishes someone would hug him, comfort him, but they don't need to know. They don't have to worry about him; he will be fine. He will make it out on his own. It will all be okay. He will never be missed.
His hands shake as he kneels on the carpet, the tears falling thick and fast. The blood seeps from his shoulders, but that's the least of his concerns. The pill bottle is empty. His heart is racing. Every second is the second he feels he's gonna die. He should call his family; he should call his crush, but it'll hurt them even more. There's probably too much in him by now to fix anyways. He doesn't eat that day, just drinks a lot of water. His mouth still feels dry, his brain slow, and his body hot. His friends are calling him. They had a gathering planned today, and he usually shows up. He doesn't bother to answer, and leaves his phone downstairs while he climbs up the stairs, to bed. It's 9:00 PM; they should be home, and asleep. He will never pick up.
His crush uses the spare key to get inside, and climbs up to his room. He is still on the bed, both bleeding and breathing rather heavily. They talk for a long while. He takes off his shirt. They dress his wounds. He gets his hug, and he cries like he has never cried before. Big, ugly sobs. His crush doesn't mind, and holds him tightly. The wounds have reopened, and blood stains both of them, but he is held and loved. They give him a kiss upon his forehead, and their tears mix. Apologies for never speaking up, never asking what was wrong. They didn't want to make him feel ashamed of it. The two lovers lay in each others' arms, and fall asleep. He will be missed.
His heart is still beating. The blood is long since cleaned; the cuts have healed. It has been almost a year since the old wounds were intentionally reopened. He feels loved by his partner, by his friends. He smiles, he laughs, he jokes. Sometimes there are weeks, even months where he relapses into the silence. Where his partner can see how he is troubled, where his friends have an inkling of what goes on in his mind. His partner puts their arm around him, pulls him closer, and they feel his muscles relax a little bit, his breathing becoming easier. He doesn't tell them everything yet; they know that much, but it's getting close to that point. He will be okay.
He gets back home, and lays in bed. His partner says they are off to work, a quick few kisses and they depart. He pulls out his laptop, and opens a text document. Maybe his ideas were, if not wholly original, at least entertaining enough for him to organize and enjoy. He will be a writer, at least for himself.