I hate the world.

Writing is supposed to help, but I still feel the tug in my gut, wanting to hurt everything.

I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m not a writer. I’m not anything special. I like to think I’m good at writing, but deep down I know I’m not.

I’m not anything special.

Why did any of this even become a reality? 

I don’t want to die, but sometimes it feels too hard to live.

I don’t know why I just wrote that.

I wish humanity could fix itself. Why is there so much hate, so much disappointment in the world? I want to be a writer. It’s a beautiful                thing, to be able to create.

I’m not going to be a writer.

Sure, I may write stories, but I will never be as good as any of the other real    writers.

I wish I could live someone else's life for a day. I want to know if they feel the  same way I do, struggle with the same things I do.