Getting to know myself I

In regard for my beloved niece I am going to write in English again. Today's topic is: meee!!! Well, not exactly me, but it is about me, about how I am getting to know myself, about that painful, humilating and slow process of getting to know oneself.
For instance, I have notice recently that my sense of humour is acquiring a mischevous twisted turn, which makes it more difficult for other people to understand or appreciate it. Why is it so? Am I becoming bitter about something in particular or maybe about life in general? In some ways the answer to this question is yes. I am bitter about things that have happened recently and about people. I am bitter about injustice and I am bitter about bitterness. I am bitter when I feel I have been played with.
On the other hand I feel small and big at the same time. As we say in Spanish, when you don't have a grandmother to praise you you have to do it yourself, so I sometimes tell myself how good, clever and handsome I am only to find out that I am not, but that is something I can leave everyone else to care of that.
In my wildest dreams, and I do have some very wild and crazy dreams, believe me, I am a good writer, however the sad (for me) truth is that I am not. One thing I admire is imagination, something of which I lack enterely. I admire those who can write fantastic stories, full of beautiful and stranges images. I just cannot. I can only write about what I see and experience. In fact, I think I could be a journalist rather than a writer, though some journalists do have quite an imagination.
My ability to imagine seems to be confined to the world of the unconscious, where I do imagine strange stories that take place in the most weird locations, nonetheless I always dream about real people, friends and family usually, and put them in the most outrageous situations. Why my mind does this I cannot really tell, but I do know that I am utterly incapable of translating any of that to my writings. That makes me bitter too and makes me think that I might be too old and sensible to become a storyteller. What's the point of writing about something that anyone can see just looking out the window.
That's another issue. There might be a point to being a storyteller with no imagination if, at least, you have a wonderful style that makes you special, a way writing so characteristic and unfathomable that it makes anything worth reading even if he or she is just telling you about drops of rain on the window. That is what a writer is, and that is all that I am not.
Pathetic, isn't it? I just put words together just being careful that the grammatical structure is correct but as much as I try to put my soul into it I just don't achieve any effect. Maybe the problem is in my soul...
To be continued.