It has been three years since I finished my last novel. The time and space seems like forever ago, but the feelings and emotions still feel fresh. Every new day is a mixture of past experiences and freshly served shit. Life keeps piling it on whether I hide in the corners or throw myself into the mix. Years have pasted yet I feel the same. I still smoke too much, drink even more, and waste my time as if I have more to burn.
Ten years ago I was sixteen and ten years ago I still had much of the same dreams. Ten years from now it will be the same. Only time and depression will change. If ten years from now I am where I am today what would have been the point of all of this? My thoughts are worthless yet I value them at a high price. I believe one day my thoughts will hold enough meaning to warrant me money for nothing, but they are only thoughts. Thoughts that no one gives a shit about. My point of view must be worthless in the end because they are all the same. “Sorry but you are not what we are looking for right now.”
Isn’t that the point? Shouldn’t You be looking to the future? If this, what I say is not “in,” isn’t that what you look for? Taking a chance on me could pay off. I might be the next big thing. In the end, I might be the greatest, but I’m not stupid. The rejections state that I am good, but really I am not. They mean to say give up. They mean to say you are an untalented, pathetic writer that no one cares about. Direct quote for my headstone.
The words used to motivate me because I thought they meant that I just wasn’t there yet. Lies I told myself to keep going. Lies that used to inspire now only hurt. They are little paper cuts across my face and hands. Little scars filled with poison. Little losses destroying what’s left of a heart that was already broken. I’m becoming more damned every day. Becoming normal in every way. I want to give up, but what’s the use? I’ll still feel the same as I did yesterday.