Cons of Being a Writer
“Cons of Being a Writer”
1. It gets lonely sometimes
2. Your work will never be good enough.
3. Frustration of lack of Inspiration.
4. Time and energy-consuming.
I opened my eyes to see rays of lights peeking at the windows, I sighed in disappointment. Disappointed because I’m still well and breathing. Nothing beats the pain of having to wait for your death every single day; just so the pain you’re in won’t pass on to someone else.
Funny right? living for someone else.
But I don’t get it, I’ve been living my whole life for them; to entertain them. Then, I finally want to do something for myself, and yet here I am; still alive, for them again.
Still alive so that they won’t feel guilty, so they won’t have to go through the pain of explaining to others my whereabouts
I’ve always been the listener type, that explains why I’m like this. For some reason, I can’t handle being a burden for ranting yet, I’m always present whenever I’m needed.
I’ll be the mirror for them, saying compliments they didn’t know they needed. Yet, I’m the hater of myself, stepping and spitting at my own image.
Why am I so mean to myself?
I don’t even know, maybe it’s the train of thought that haunts me every night. Overthinking even the smallest things.
A writer who writes others’ happy endings, but ran out of ink when it comes to her own story.
“When did all of this start?” She asked herself, stirring the hot cup of coffee in front of her. She closed her eyes and reminisced when she used to be young and full of joy because that’s all she can do; smile at the past that’ll always be the past.
A question from the past struck me.
“What’s your goal in life?”
For that one particular question, I gave different answers each time. I could’ve said “I don’t know” but that can’t be, because it’s boring and they don’t like ‘boring’.
But if they ask me that today, I only have one answer.
“I don’t have any...”
“Because I thought I’ll kill myself 2 years ago.”
I turned my phone on and pressed an app I could waste my time using. Scrolling endlessly and mindlessly.
Until a notification caught my attention.
I checked to see what it was.
A small smile formed on my face, and drops of tears fell from my eyes.
It was a message asking...
>Hey, are you okay?
It didn’t matter who the message was from, I felt happy for the first time in a while. Like the feeling of a kid that gets a warm hug from their parents whenever they cry.
But that warm hug didn’t last long for me.
5. Writers sometimes mixes reality and fantasy.
My smile fell in an instant.
“Right, no one was ever there for me to begin with...”
