I...I can't write.
I can't write fiddle sticks.
There's no way I can weave words into a brilliant story, to blow one's imagination away with great literature. There is no way I can be a writer, no matter how many things I wish to yearn to say, to reach out and speak to people.
It's all...hopeless.
Completely hopeless. It always has been.
And yet...
Before, dreams kept me going on. Wild fantasies. The sheer joy of pouring thoughts onto paper, making dreams come alive word after word, paragraph after paragraph- it all seemed so simple before. Before...the darkness...
It comes right in without knocking. Very simply, very quietly. It's frightening, really. The way darkness can creep in without you suspecting it at all...and as quick as a flash- it traps you in its icy grip and cages you in like a helpless little bird.
This sort of darkness chopped down my wings, so that I would be unable to fly.
This is hardly fair. None of this is fair. At all... NONE.
What is the point of having wings if you can't fly?!
Thought after thought. Teardrop after teardrop. There is nothing that can soothe this tormented soul, this one insecure little girl. Try as anybody might, the darkness keeps pulling her down deeper and deeper, farther and farther away from the light.
It's nothing to concern yourselves with, though, oh dear no. It's merely fate- nothing more.















Comments
That's because some people can't stand it if other people (like you) are better at something than they are. They think that if they aren't good at something, then it's impossible that anyone else can be. They say things to bring you down, because they can't fly, and the fact that you can makes them angry. The truth is, people like that really only want to hurt you, even if they claim the opposite. I've seen your writing, and it isn't a fantasy...you have real talent.
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A black sheep is still a sheep.
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