I really wanted to write. A one-shot I mean. The ones I read were so inspirational. I hated how deprived of ideas I was, even when I had the urge to write. There were just so many possibilities, but I never had a gift for finding or using them.
I never got the bother to draft with pen and paper. I think I didn’t want anyone to find out about my writing. I was too overprotective. I didn’t like it when other people knew how I felt - it took that special thing away from me. I didn’t know what that thing was, but it left me very insecure.
It was an odd sense of insecurity. It wasn’t the paranoia of being attacked for who I was. It was the paranoia of being considered equal. I didn’t like that. I could be superior. I could be inferior. But I didn’t like it to be equal. Perhaps it was a selfish desire to be special.
This I achieved. But I wasn’t revered. I was simply known. This gradually became my isolation. I was neither superior. Nor was I inferior. I was in a different world. It was a world where I could freely bottle up my emotions, to keep secrets.
It was a bland world. It was generic. All people have access to their own sections of this world. It was still bland to them probably, but they still had that other world to attend. That world was where everyone shared their own snippets of this world.
But I didn’t. If someone asked me about it, I wouldn’t tell them anything more than would reveal the nature of my part of the world. Either that, or I tell a different story altogether - an acceptable story. I was too lenient back then; I revealed too much and now I was going to pay for it.
Even for writing this. It’s a rant after all. About how I couldn’t write one-shots. But maybe I could be cured. Or I’m just being too hopeful. It’s a poor rant anyway. There were things I wanted to mention. Abstract things. But l didn’t want to, because that would make the rant harder for someone to agree with.
Is that what I want? Sympathy? I didn’t know. There were reasons I had where I would’ve been glad to have someone sympathise with me. But what if they didn’t? Then I’d be equal. They’d purge my ideals and spread the word out. I didn’t like the prospect of that.
It was all a vain attempt at being unique. I never had many gifts. There was a bit of intellect, but I was widely outclassed by others. I didn’t like letting others found out how awful it was in being outclassed at so many levels. I led a meaningless existence and this was the only thing I could do about it.
Maybe if I died people would bring me into consideration. Then forget about it a few days later. No, I needed to persist. Ultimately, I’d like to publicise my part of the world. But I didn’t want to do it so as to be mocked after my death. If I took it down the grave, then people would only hypothesise about what my part looked like. I wouldn’t like that.
The human mind was shallow after all. I seemed equal as much as I hated it. They’d just dismiss my death as being a victim of physical stress. As stressed and dejected I actually was, I would’ve liked to call mental illness into question about my suicide, rather than basic human limits. Maybe that was another vain desire.
I don’t know if I am depressed at all anyway. I most likely am not. I only notice and judge things by short-term benefits or sacrifices. Even if suicide would help me achieve my goal, I am still afraid of the nothingness that follows.
I think it was a good rant. It was short. But I don’t think I could do it again. I don’t want to read it. I went away midway through a paragraph and my mood changed. I don’t know what else to write anymore. It’s pretty loud outside. I wanted to rant when I started this, but I don’t think I’m morally allowed to now.
I’ll stop now. Maybe I can come back later and continue without referring to anything above. Maybe one day I’ll actually decide to reread this. Then I’d hate myself even more. People don’t change. Not even I do. No matter how much time passed between me writing this and me rereading this, I wouldn’t have changed.
Not one bit.