Fucking Up in e minor

Whenever I come home to my parents house, I see my piano sitting in the corner. Protected under a cotton flannel sheet, it remains; regal, durable, and gorgeous. It rests, waiting for me make enough money to bring it to another home, to be stable enough to play it regularly, to love myself enough to understand that I'm worthy of digging into it's keys with my tired fingers.

Several years after my fortunate music scholarship has ended, I find myself longing to go back to the piano; yet I'm filled with self doubt and depression every time I sit down at the keyboard. This may be true for many creative people (or everyone?), but I can't help but feeling like something is wrong with me; that I can't seem to sit down at the piano for longer than an hour before I start bawling. I feel like I've let myself go; the technique I worked so hard to develop continues to slip as the years go by, not playing regularly enough.

I don't know why I've struggled so much with music. I so desperately want to share things with the world and have had periods of my life where many people have expressed enjoying what I have to offer artistically. Yet I always seem to make some excuse not to play: I'm too depressed, too tired, the apartment is too messy, there's too many people to see, money to be made, other sources of creativity to explore.

But as painful as it is for me for whatever reason I don't quite understand yet, all I know is this: I can't be in the world and not be working on something musically. Even creating something small makes me happy, even if I have to stifle the voices in my head telling me I'm too talentless to exist. So now, I'm attempting to work as often as I can force myself, and to share it with the world even if I don't find it ready. So I give to you: Fucking Up in e minor. An improvised piece that I forced myself to sit through the tears and work out. Should I condense it and write it down and make it officially COMPOSED? What do you think?