AnodienFireborn's Randomness

Random Rant #1

Welcome to Random Rant #1!! I deleted my old rant book. 

The first rant I'll do here is on myself. Funny, right? Meh. Honestly, a couple weeks ago, I was in such a deep depression that my heart felt like it was going to fall out of my chest. It hurt so badly. I would have gladly died in that time. I gave up being a writer, and every time someone approached to speak to me, I would flinch. I cried daily. I felt absolutely worthless. Though I'm not proud to admit it, I saw blood on my arms for the first time in months.

My teacher always let me go on the computer at the end of class if my work was done, so I could write. I had to fake a smile and accept. I didn't want anyone to feel bad for me (or worse, scorn me for this). So, instead of writing my book, I wrote an entire letter to myself, based on what I felt. Whenever I had free time, I would knock myself down by writing more of the letter. It pains me to read it, because it... I can truly say I sometimes still feel this way. I'll put it up here. I'll take out some passages, though. 

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“If everything I write is mediocre, then why do you care? Why do you bother loving me? It isn’t possible for such a worthless thing to be loved. I can’t say it’s not fair, because it is. Thank you, for helping me see who I truly am.”

“I do have self-esteem problems. You can’t begin to understand it. Oops, here I go again, saying my life is so bad. Please forgive me. I’ve had a rough life, it’s true. But you told me the direction I was going—straight to anonymity. Just a face in the crowd. Not one in a million, just one of a million. You’ll be shining above the rest while I sit in the corner with self pity.”

“That must be why I’m hated. That’s why I’m despised. Despite my hatred for myself, I placed myself above all others. I can’t write. My writing is mediocre. You said that, and it’s true. Everything I write is garbage. The light I used to be was an illusion. I am delusional to think I’m anything special. I guess it’s not just a forfeit of dreams. It is a literal Forfeit of Dreams. I’m giving them up. It’s a bad dream anyways.”

“”You think that everything you write is gold.” I didn’t, and still don’t. My writing is terrible. I’m intelligent. That’s why they like me. Because I can help them. They give me lies in return, telling me how wonderful I am. They’re lying to me.”

“I know you’re not lying to me. I’d know. But this time, I recognize it. I recognize how insignificant I am, how I pull people down to get to the top. My heart feels heavy, so very heavy… pull it out of my chest before I die. This is no story. This is a letter. To whom? If only I knew.”

“The sick irony. The pain of loss. I knew who I was, where I was going… now I know that is not my path. Three hundred mean nothing, only the one got through. Why? I’ve never been criticized.(Taken Passage) But the one was true. The one was a storm of truth, of my own selfishness. If all this was a test, then I failed. Because I’m giving it all up.”

“I hope you enjoy how my dreams are dead. I cannot blame you, for it is my own fault. It is my own foolish ways that has brought me down. Every word makes my heart heavier. My soul… if I have one… is darkening. If I wrote every word I thought of myself on my arm, would you believe that I think only of myself, that my head is in the clouds? I tried to think better of myself, because I hated—still hate—myself. Look where it got me.”

“Death is our only release. I thought I would do something worthy in my life, that I’d make an impact. You didn’t understand… if people liked my writing, then I wouldn’t be typing this. Oh, this would make an excellent story. If only I knew I had talent.”