SMOKE SPIRIT

10:~Resonance of Despair~

I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself.

I felt nothing—no sadness, no raw emotion, and no depression I used to feel while reading the end of my manuscript almost one year ago. My life stopped forever along with this writing project. Talking about publishing my book yesterday with Elic made me open this manuscript again. Draft one had so many places that needed immediate editing, and some of them were so depressing to read with a straight face. I was depressed, so was my character.

In the past year since my parents' death and stopping this project, in fact stopping all of my projects, I was scared to open it again. I might have stopped writing it, but every week when I used to open it, the reality of my life would come creeping toward me. It used to shake my core with its intensity of scream. I made them; I made these characters, but yet they had the power to slap my resemblance with them in my face. But I didn't feel that. It still made me reflect on my life, but it didn't make me sad or shake me to my core as it used to do. In my friend circle, I was known for writing the most depressing stories, and they used to always put this truth in front of me that no one would read it. But then one day I asked this single question: Am I writing because I want to show it to people? The answer came so fast, almost like a reflex. The answer was simple: I'm writing them to shove my depression and my suffering into them and see them have a happy end, even though I didn't have one or maybe never will. But yet, I wanted to see them happy; it made me happy. They are part of me. They hold chunks of my persona, and they hold chunks of my traumas too. "I hate myself"—these words were short, precise, and just three words, but they made me reflect myself in them. The reflection was clear; I could see Avery Rose Thompson very clearly. But now, no more did I see her.

The hope, the feeling, were of a ghost. It always makes me admire him. He is dead, yet he had a wish to fulfill, a wish that he is so desperate to complete. But yet he is holding onto hope, hope of someone helping him, hope of his painting being completed someday, and hope of winning in life. I admire him for this. He had suffered; I don't know in how many ways, but his painting, those dark gloomy paintings, are witnesses of it. What can be a 20-year-old guy's suffering? Family issues, sickness, bullying? I don't know and never had the courage to ask him either. I flipped the stack of papers and closed it, getting a clear view of the first page where the title of the book was inscribed: "Fate and Hate." I sighed and got up, getting a notebook out of the stack of notebooks on the side table. This notebook was dedicated to my project "Fate and Hate." I like to write by hand and not digitally on computers. It gives me another kind of peace. The writing might be messy and not understandable, but I love to do it like this. I love to write them in my own handwriting.

I opened the notebook, my mind once again flooding with ideas. A bliss filled me. I sat at the study table, ducking my head down close to the notebook, and writing, just writing what comes to my mind. It's my last wish to complete this book, and more. I am alive and so much capable of writing it, so I will write it.

I don't want to be a wandering soul like Elic. He got someone like me to help him, but I am not guaranteed that I will get one or not. No one understands the feeling of art more than the artist himself. Elic is an artist; so am I. But we both hold different feelings about our art. He is dedicated while I am devoted, or maybe we both are feeling both devotion and dedication at once, and we both are able to connect them together and sort it out. He told me he wanted to complete this painting for his mother and for himself. At least he prioritized himself. I wanted this book to be completed and to be read just because I want them to have a happy ending. We have our priorities. Just like he wants to do it for himself, I also want to do it for myself, but very differently.

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A/N

This chapter was depressing to write but tried my best anyways.