The beauty about writing is that nobody reads my stories, so I know I can tell them honestly. No BS, no glitter. I can write down all the terrible things about myself and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. Oh, how there's beauty in being invisible.
Since this post, like my stories, is going to be lost to the endless ether of the internet, I might as well be honest here too.
Life sucks.
Working a soulless job every single day just to stay poor sucks. Being told, "You're such a great guy, how are you still single?" then striking out with every girl in the neighborhood sucks. Loved ones dying sucks.
Don't you agree?
I'm at my wit's end. And the worst part is, I can feel the creative spark inside me dwindling. What happens if I lose it? I'd be nothing. No, I'd be worse than nothing. I'd be BORING. I'd be just another soulless lump of matter taking up space in the cosmos.
Maybe that's what hell is.