I Can't Bear Reading what I Previously Wrote.

I just can't, especially if it's in English. If it is in Arabic, then maybe, just maybe, I can read it again and judge it to be adequate; yet I am rarely satisfied with what I write. I have discovered that I am better at writing fiction in Arabic, but better at writing non-fiction in English.
If I write something, a terror from reading it after a while encompasses my heart; by a while, I mean a week, a month, a year after, etc... I just find it to be an obnoxious mixture of words, one of the worst things I could ever read in my life. I cannot not write, but I also cannot bring myself to read what I write; I just prefer throwing it into an endless abyss where I would never encounter it again. It is only when I write that I do not feel an enormously unbearable melancholy of existence; it is only when I write and learn; it is only when I look forward to something beyond this realm of existence; it is only then that I do not feel melancholic, it is my only addictive escape. But at the same time, I despise it, I cannot bring myself to look at it even one day later. I am trying to get rid of that by exposing my work more often, for I have always been fond of writing and then immediately deleting my words (O, how often it has been that I decided to say or write nothing when I had much to talk about). I fight this urge every time I write anything, I fight this unbelievable desire to destroy what I just wrote. Even now, I am forcing myself not to delete these words, and it is in this painful dialectical process that I find joy the most. It is within the internal conflict, the perpetual state of war I exist in, it is there where I find the distraction I need until I am free of this realm of existence. My gaze is set elsewhere, and had it not been for that, I would have never endured. My sight is set on the higher realm of knowledge, but I just have to get through this one first and acquire as much as possible before the arrival of that unmistakable moment. How much I long to see with the eyes of my consciousness, free of what I have here...
I cannot read what I write, but writing is all what I posses. I cannot talk and communicate adequately, nor can I paint adequately, nor do I find the willingness to engage with others that often. Words are all I have, and learning is all I want. Writing is how I train the rational processing unit, and knowledge is what I yearn to feed that system which builds my ideological construction that is essentially established on a self-enhancing feedback loop. Writing helps me there, but I do not wish to read what I write; I cannot, as a matter of fact. This is good from one side, yet bad from another. From one perspective, it means that who I am today (and thus, what I write today) will not be who I shall be in a week, a month, a year, etc... (thus, what I write and deem to be adequate in a week, a month, a year...). That would mean that I have changed, and an alternation would mean that I am not intellectually stagnant. Thus, I am acquiring and learning, and consequently thinking, and accordingly alive. Thinking, writing, and reading, that is when I am not depressed, because that is when I am acquiring, and that is when I am alive. The moments I do not think in, the times where everything I stand for is not challenged, and the instances where I am not in a state of intellectual (even psychological) conflict are the exact times when I am not existent, and that is when I am melancholic.
Thus, what I enjoy today I might not in a week.
What I write today I will not in a week.
What I am today will die tomorrow and become something else...