[I'd like to hide away and die in the most nether parts of the Netherworld, please.]
There is such bitter aftertaste in my mouth, as I find books that are so much better than anything I've ever created.
I thought the haters' comments were gonna be the thing that would repulse me, eventually, from writing. But lately, I rather believe it will be the conviction that I should just shut up, stop contributing to the world's noise pollution, and just let the great minds speak.
For the longest time, I could not explain my love for Oikawa Tōru. Also - my hate for his bully - Iwaizumi Hajime (that disgusting lil bitch!). But then, one YouTube video hit me like a sack of bricks, and I got my explanation. I always do. It's one of my curses in this lifetime - I always get what I want. In time. Years may pass. But I do. This is why my last couple of years were meant as complete and total self-isolation, beyond the world pandemic. Self-inflicted. Chosen.
Because I can't be wishing for stuff. I can't be wishing for stuff to happen. Or for stuff to possess. I will get it all. And all my wishes have always been wrong. Always. From the day I was born onwards. Every single day of my life has been a mistake.
Now, I only meet a shop-assistant twice per month, as per necessity. I only talk to my abusive mother once every couple of weeks, to let her know that : no, I am not dead, and no - I am not pregnant.
I can't be around people any more. Traveling on the bus for 10 minutes is torture, and I could not do it without headphones firmly planted inside my ears, separating me from humanity as much as possible.
People and tricksters will be assuring you that you are unique. Special. Pretty even. Maybe? But you are not.
You are not special. I am not, either.
The realization of my mediocrity was my true mid-life crisis. I think I was 35. I got through denial, of course. Tried to change. To change perspective. Be positive, work more.
But... unlike my baby Tōru... I am not so strong. I am broken in too many places and lately there is nothing and nobody to hold the pieces together. So I am falling. Apart. And I am living apart. Anything else hurts too badly.
People always cut through me, as if I am a piece of cake. And they always take away, snatch away some small bits of me, unaware, but hungry to steal some more.
I have no more. I have nothing left. You have taken everything.
Now, I am just mediocre. I am nobody. Nemo. No name.
I exist, but that's all. There is no beauty in my life, no art, no music, no ambitions, dreams. My life is constant crisis and dread. Nightmares.
Do I even have the right to be writing any more? It is one of those (strangely numerous) days when I crave to delete all the 2 200 000 words I have written.
They are my shame. They are a burden.
please, watch. it's worth your time.
