I never knew this situation could snowball into the colossal and undefeatable pain in the ass it's become now.

Sometimes I'll imagine where I'd be if I got the ball rolling a couple years ago, somewhere in my teens. I'd've been somewhere by now. I'd definitely be happier, I could just pour my brain onto a canvas. I could maybe even sustain myself with it if I was good enough.

I've tried forcing myself to draw, trying to force myself past the barrier and getting shit done. Because I was desperate. And it didn't work. I fell on my face, and I wouldn't be prying it off the floor this time, because I learnt something. I'm not passionate for it. I don't want to put up with it anymore.

And this isn't any bullshit about not being good instantly. People fucking love bolting to that conclusion. That's not the full picture. What I actually want is to be passionate for it. I want to just do it mindlessly and enjoy it, and go somewhere enough so I can replicate my many visions into observable images with my own fucking hands.

Listen, my life is not terrible by any means. But I'd just rather leave. And for some reason, I'm the one who's mad in everyone's eyes for that. And I'm told to just push on a little bit further. And so, I've stuck my neck out again and again, and every single time, nothing changed. If anything, things just get worse. More responsibilities, more Schrödinger's living, my paradoxical passions slipping further and further away.

This? This is the grandiose life I'd be missing out on? Feelings of complete and utter inward vacancy and emptiness as I accept the impossibility of my wishes? Everyone is fucking mad. There's no way this is the hogshit everyone advocates for when I idealize suicide. Brainless, empty, surviving but void of life.

Nothing gives me enjoyment anymore. I just wish I could draw. I wish I actually wanted to draw. But that's down the drain, now I want to leave, and apparently that makes me the one who's mad.