Talentless

         I've always wanted to be an author. Ever since I was a student, I've always wanted to be an author. It was my one dream; it was all I ever wanted. They said I had talent. They said, "That kid has a way with words." And I believed them, I believed in everything they said. I believed in myself, that I could achieve my dreams and be recognized. I believed that I really could do it. I believed I was--special.
         
         Six hours ago, I tried to kill myself. Six hours ago, I took the revolver from the drawer and loaded it with three rounds, alternating between each chamber. I wasn't thinking straight. It was a 50/50 chance. I placed the gun unto my head, shaking furiously, sweating terribly. I took a deep breath, and I was ready. I was ready. But I didn't pull the trigger, I couldn't.

         Life is merciless. Six hours ago, death seemed so much sweeter than living on like this. I was broke. My rent had been overdue for three months, promising the keepers that I would pay them once my book sells. But it didn't. It didn't . . . and why would it? What kind of fortune was I imagining that would be sourced from a worthless book written by a talentless author--No, a talentless fool? Why did I believe their words? Why did I think that I could be recognized? Why did my life turn out to be this way? And why did I let it?

         Why are dreams so hard to reach? When we're all taught to accomplish our ambitions, even though most of us have no idea what they are until it's too late!

         Unlike me--who has it worse. Unlike me, who had his life paved right before him, knew what his dreams were, his ambitions--yet still, wasn't flawed by chance, wasn't flawed by opportunity. He was simply flawed by his own lack of ability. And that shamed me and infuriated me to the core. I was talentless.

         Why are dreams so hard to reach? Without even certainty that I will inevitably reach them?

         And the worst part is, I still believe I can do it. I still believe that someday, I can achieve my dreams. That someday, all my debt will be cleared. That someday, I'll be finally happy with my life, be contented that I've reached my life's climax, and all I'll do from there is count stars. Why do I still believe in myself? Why do I think there's still hope beyond this hopeless situation? Why, amidst this inevitable end do I fight against? Why?

         Well, I think it's the only thing I can do.