It can be hard to write sometimes when you have nearly no experiences. There’s not much for me to say about myself. There’s not much for me to know about myself. What can I say? That I just want to be good at something. That I want to know I’m good at something, and that the only way for me to know is to have strangers praise me? Is that it? Is that me? My identity is actually dependent on the opinions of complete strangers. That explains why I’m going so fucking insane. Waiting for the recognition of others will always leave me unsatisfied and empty, because I can always do better and there will always be people doing better than me. I won’t be satisfied with myself ever, if I keep living like this. I should be able to define myself without other peoples’ opinions, and I shouldn’t even need to define myself. I should be able to do things not because they define me and not because other people think I do them well, but because I enjoy it. That’s what writing should be. It should be speaking freely without any restraint based off of who is going to read it, including myself. I can put together the most badly worded sentences with the dullest ideas. I probably do. And that’s okay. As long as I keep going and keep improving. It’s okay if I stop, but afterwards I must start again. The only thing that matters is that I keep going.
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