It’s venting time.
I feel so insignificant. I know that’s probably a very invalid feeling to have right now, especially because there are many people out there who find me a worthy person, but I just can’t help it. I have so much I want to accomplish, and none of it I can ever get done. I want to change the world, to be a real writer who’s actually making a difference, but I feel like I’m stuck running in place. It seems as if every move I’ve ever made towards my dreams has led to nowhere but nothing. My life is a dead end right now. Not to be dramatic, but I feel completely pointless. I’m just a student going through the motions, trying to build credentials and get a degree so she can be taken seriously in the professional world. But why do I need a degree to show that I can write, that I can successfully convey emotion through the application of prose? Shouldn’t my actual work prove that? Isn’t this whole degree thing a waste of my time? I mean, right now I’m stuck reading ancient philosophy and putting myself in hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt when I could very easily be out there actually applying myself and making a difference. Instead of being like all of those other young adults who’ve given up everything to become successful in their fields and achieve their dreams, I’m busy digging myself a hole, writing pointless rhetorical analyses on Greek gods and entering silly little competitions that have never and probably will never work out for me. It’s beyond frustrating. I want to do something with my life! I want to make a difference! I want to matter! But how can I ever do that when I’m stuck in class all day and at work all night? What on earth am I going to do? How could any of this ever end well? Is this even worth it?
But I guess since I still want to write more than anything in the world despite all of these doubts, it is worth it–or will be one day, maybe. I guess that since the pain that comes with the thought of quitting writing altogether is worse than the pain that comes with the thought of never becoming a successful writer at all, it must, in fact, be my destiny, so I must keep going with it. Yes, being a depressed writer is certainly better than never writing again; writing is my life, after all, and I’d certainly rather be depressed than dead.
And, speaking of death, at least with writing, I’ll still have a chance of postmortem recognition.
Yes, everything in its own time. I just have to stay hopeful. Maybe some chocolate can help with that.
Actually, come to think of it, a future wallowing in chocolate doesn’t sound half-bad–as long as the chocolate doesn’t have nuts, that is.