You stopped writing. Was it stupid? Doing something most people seemed to appreciate..
But you didn't think you were actually good at it. Not everyone who writes can be called a writer. You did not write at will, yielding romance or stories which leave people awestruck. You did not use fancy words which made pain seem beautiful, heartbreak seem glorious.
You just wrote misery. The plain way people experienced it. It was the misery you had to go through when you saw too much, when you understood too much but you did too little. That's the tragedy of living.
But after a while, you couldn't fathom how even after stirring a world of emotions in them your words made you feel lost..
You tried to write about melancholy in a hopeful tone. Maybe it confused you too.
You didn't believe in happiness being prevalent at all times, but you did believe in it's existence.
You wrote when you were angry and relief came from watching fires burn from your written anger.
That fire was supposed to light the way for others, but maybe it burnt you along.
Seeing writing as a way of contributing in a way was just a way of comforting yourself, not the others. Maybe after burning, you don't need to comfort yourself anymore, who knows?