Tales of A Libra

Deadly Sin: Envy

"Have you read her fiction? It is great! I spent only a night to read the chapters." her friend shrugged with a smile fixing her pale pinkish lips, "It is a sad fact that she has not continued writing it yet. I wish she would update sooner."

Smiling a faltering one, she just responded with a small nod at her friend's sentence. Yes, she admitted that another of her friend was a truly talented writer. She admired her other friend for being a true great potential writer who has a beautiful unique way of writing that she can even alter ordinary sentences to jaw-dropping and heart-warming phrases. Meanwhile here, she is also a writer, yet a writer who struggles to be a real writer. No matter how many times everyone compliments on her writing style and books, she knows by then that those are just never enough, and those are just the common comments she heard.

She yearns for more than that. She wants so bad to give life to her stories just like how her other friend does. She wants more than what she has now.
She wants
the flames,
the spark,
the thunder,
the storm,
the forest,
the hurricane,
the feelings,
the attention,
the endless compliments,
the life itself;
she wants people to be envious of her too.

But then, whenever she writes, all she sees is just a lifeless plot. No matter how hard she tries to change her words, all of them are just so plain like bland coffee. She admits that even children can write better than she does. Her pages are always so dull that she can already tell how many times her readers will take a yawning and glance around while flipping the pages skipping the paragraphs she has just written. She can already tell how boring her stories are if compared to others, how pitiful and limited her ideas are if counted, and how lacking of originality herself is. She can already tell, if her readers have stopped commenting and take times to finish reading a chapter of her tale, she already knows how they all have found better stories than hers, and she is envious of those lucky writers who are able to steal her readers from her.

She hates to be left behind all alone in misery, she wants to be alive too. She wants everything. Yes, she is oh so greedy, but she is already tired. She has tried her best to read up dictionaries, learning new vocabularies, using big words to mature up her stories, but again, she loses her way.

Her metaphors, her references, her once beautiful words, her limitless imagination, and her dreams, they are all completely snatched away from her. And now she is just a crashed empty mess struggling to stand on her own legs collecting all those tiny pieces of her because she is losing her mind now. Yet, she wonder how could other writers, even her mentioned friend, could be so better and are able to write so perfectly? Oh she is so angry, so damn angry knowing that she is the weakest one and that she cannot even spread her small wings because the others are just so larger and greater than her. She hates those writers, yet she hates herself more for being so inferior. She hates being so weak that no one even wants to look at her.

Thing is, the reason as to why she is so envious so much when it comes to writing, that is because she values writing more than she values her self-worth. Hey, she used to value drawing and painting too before, and went so envious, totally envious more and more day by day that she suffered a lot until one day she decided to tell herself that she is never a drawer and a painter because she just doesn't deserve that title at all, because her friends are much more better of drawers and painters than her.

She has accepted that, and has left such a life years ago. But then again, if someone reminds her how bad of a drawer she is, or how her friends show their true majestic drawings and paintings at her, her heart will be so damaged and crashed just like how she felt years ago, but she tries her best to make her friends happy by saying how great of a person they are. But oh never they know how hurting she is inside knowing she will never be good enough.

Then after drawing and painting which used to be her childhood hobby and passion, now she changed to writing. Ever since she knows that she could at least write and finish up a story, that how easy it is to express emotions through words, and she starts to love writing just as how she used to love drawing and painting. She thinks she is literally one of the best writers all around. But then, one day, she begins to discover that she is never the best writer, no, she is not even a good writer as she knows that some of her friends are way much better of writers than her. If compared, her stories are just mere scribbling while her friends' stories can already get awards. And of course, for thousand of nights she weeps alone in her bedroom because then she starts to feel like her purpose of life is being snatched away,
that her flames are blown away,
that her spark is no longer bright,
that her thunder is no longer threatening,
that her storm is no longer massive,
that her forest is burnt,
that her hurricane has ceased,
that her feelings are dumped,
that her attention she received has gone,
that her endless compliments she heard are declining,
that she feel lifeless.

and once again, she is so envious and hurting once more.