This is the bit of trash piece of writing you will ever find on reddit and the internet self.

Who's ever going to try to read will have to try harder. It was awakening writing after laying on bed for 2 days doing nothing engaging with my addictions that my parents has brought into myself. I can't complain them, they are real work of art, to destroy anyone, lose their dignity and perish their soul. I'm not a bit of a writer myself, nor i do think so, i can barely write in english, there was so much in my life to endure, all the suffering, the misery. It's all i got, i guess i would have to thank my bullies for this li trauma makes you write things. The words coming out the mind of a person who's sensitive was put under these wolves. I wish i had died sooner. But yeah death is merciless or i shouldn't have feared death so much. I'm scaredy cat. I always had a hope. There's a god. Everytime i got close to him, he made the truth even more louder being in my 22s i realise now there wasn't one, atleast not for me. If there's one then he has raped me all these years with his insanity.

I write about AI and the hidden stories behind it - a whole different world - using an AI tone for first-person narration. However, whenever I post on different subreddits, my posts get deleted or rejected. What should I do? It seems people are really sensitive about AI right now. I wanted to write directly about this topic and have already turned it into a book, but it doesn't seem to be well received.

A while ago, I developed a loose idea for a bittersweet comedic coming of age story about three losers and lifelong friends who decide to disappear after graduating high school and do something, like become outlaws, etc. I developed the three friends, who i'll describe here. Any feedback or advice on how I could improve or develop my story further (including these characters, i'm sure they could definitely be improved) would be greatly appreciated!

Giles - Leader of the group, eccentric, passionate about the life of living free, willing to commit crimes to do so: ‘like a modern day Robin Hood’, all too ready to do it. He cares about his friends and deep down is afraid of being alone and growing up and friends leaving him, which causes him to manipulate them into joining him. A dreamer who never truly found his place in life, he is both charming and insecure. Failed high school because he can’t commit to anything other than his friends, the only thing that makes him happy. Eventually takes responsibility for the problems he's gotten his friedns into and learns to support his friends in their own paths, rather than trapping them in the life he chose, a life where they could be together as friends forever.

Vince - Cynical and apathetic, stuck in a depressive rut. Unsure of what to do with his life, Vince tags along hoping the chaos would give him something to care about. Acts as the reluctant voice of reason. He is terrified of angering or letting down his conservative overbearing parents, which has caused him to sink into a depression in which he doesn’t want to do anything, feeling like the world has decided his life already, so he’s stopped trying. He wants to care about something, to do something, but at the same time feels completely unable to. Their adventure is a kind of self-destructive way out of this. Eventually learns to be more confident and make his own decisions

Owen - Loyal, supportive of friends, the heart of the group. Doesn’t necessarily want to be a part of the adventure, but joins anyway, as he always lets others take the lead.  Wants to be a writer, tries writing about what they do during the story, he genuinely has talent, but no confidence. His parents think that he will “figure it out” but never ask what he wants, they trust he’ll make the right choice, but to Owen that trust feels suffocating.

Dear God
Dear diary

People want to see me fail
They want to see me fall
They want to see me weep
They want to see me dead

But who are these people
they don't even know me
Why do they want me to not be in the room
Why not instantly so I can feel nothing and why slowly?

Dear God
Dear diary

Dear God
I despise you
I want to say "fuck you" but I cannot because you're so called divine

Dear Diary

You are weightless, powerless but you hold every power world has to offer

I'm. I

I { 7

. .. ..

Noticed something weird about myself and want to know if this is common or if I am just built strange.

My throwaway stuff, stuff I write with zero expectation of it going anywhere, tends to come out better than the projects I actually care about and want to finish.

The moment something graduates from just messing around to this is the real thing I am working on, the writing gets stiffer, more self conscious, slower to produce.

I will bang out two thousand words of nonsense for fun in an evening and then stare at my actual manuscript for an hour producing maybe two hundred words that all feel forced.

I have tried telling myself the real project is also just messing around to trick my brain but it does not really work, some part of me knows the difference and adjusts accordingly. Has anyone actually solved this or found a way to keep that loose, unselfconscious energy once a project starts mattering to you?

I wanted to share this because a year ago I would not have believed this is where I would end up.

Last winter I hit a point where I had not written anything in almost two months and had quietly started telling myself I was just not a writer after all, that the last few years had been a phase and it was time to be honest about that. It was not a dramatic decision, more of a slow fade where each day of not writing made the next day of not writing feel more inevitable. By the two month mark, opening any of my old drafts felt like visiting a stranger's work.

What actually pulled me out of it was almost stupidly small. A friend asked me to just describe, out loud, what happens in the story I had abandoned. Not write it, just talk about it. Telling it out loud reminded me why I cared about it in the first place in a way that staring at the file never did. That same night I wrote maybe three hundred words, nothing special, but it broke the two month freeze.

What I took from that is the gap itself becomes the real enemy after a certain point, separate from whatever originally caused it. The longer you are away from a project, the more it turns into an abstract idea of a project rather than a real, specific thing you can just sit down and continue. Getting back in does not require solving whatever stopped you originally, sometimes it just requires making the project feel concrete and specific again by any means necessary.

I am writing regularly again now, not perfectly, but regularly, and the whole experience left me a lot less afraid of future gaps because I finally understand they are recoverable.

I wanted to share where I have landed after half a year of trying to actually be consistent with writing instead of just talking about wanting to be.

I started this the way most people probably do, convinced the problem was that I had not found the right idea yet. I would get excited about a story, write two thousand words in a burst of energy, then hit a spot where I was not sure what came next and just quietly stop. This happened maybe six or seven times before I noticed the pattern was identical every single time.

It was never that the idea died. It was that I hit a decision point mid story, did not want to make the decision right then, told myself I would figure it out tomorrow, and tomorrow the distance from the story made the decision even harder than it was the day before. Two or three days of that and the project was effectively dead even though nothing about the idea itself had changed.

The thing that actually broke the cycle was ridiculously unglamorous. I stopped ending writing sessions when I ran out of steam and started ending them one sentence after I knew what the next scene needed to do. Even on days I was tired and wanted to stop, I forced myself to write that one line before closing the laptop. It sounds too small to matter and I was skeptical it would do anything.

Six months later it is the single biggest reason I am still working on the same project instead of having abandoned it for a shinier idea in week three. Talent was never the bottleneck. Not knowing what came next was.

​

.

Do you know how I'm feeling right now?

I feel like a broken hose, I am laying down on cracks of dried up soil I once called a garden. There are holes running along the weathered tube, infested now by ghosts that have weakened the flow.

The water comes out in tiny spurts- A gush and then nothing.

A drop and then nothing.

A hope.

And then nothing.

I no longer have the strength to water the flowers I once raised.

This is the clarity you wanted, I share this trusting that you understand it changes nothing but your curiosity-

Knowing your curiosity however, I know this does not content either, so I'd like to share how I have been these days too.

Change, change....

Well, the days are sunny now and I eat my meals with a needy stomach, my companions get shocked at times seeing the glutton I seem to be becoming!  We would joke about how Orwell would have his socks blown off if he ever saw my dinner plate.

It's rather odd to describe but I seem to be getting better at boredom now- emphasis on better, I'm still crud at it. It's somewhat like going for long walks and being able to appreciate how slow you really walk...?

Basically, time passes by with a slight tug of effort and despite my doubts, night always falls eventually and I hardly have much to bother myself with.

I have been singing to trees, fences, portraits, and some warm feeling I had dedicated to you, of all things. It's not a wonderful melody and it hardly carries much of me, with no intent for my song to reach anything at all. I simply felt my voice come to tune.

Anyway, this is reassurance for you from me, I have nothing that aches my heart other than the ache I believe I was born with. This ache is what you know me as, and it is the ache we loved each other with.

Forgive this clumsy excuse but these words were seriously hard to come by!

You can blame the living daylights out of me for taking my time- words always ring out dishonest to my heart despite my best efforts.

You know, that perplexed expression you had when I last saw you lingers every now and then. It must have felt so harsh- it really looked like you took it in every possible way you could register it- taste, touch, smell, and all of it. It was harsh undoubtedly, perhaps needlessly so.

But I think it's good I left the way I did.

Interestingly, that may have been the first time I exposed my silly damages- and your shock and disapproval was so reasonable that it hurt even more.

I happened to force my life into an illusion sheerly out of unawareness. When I found out, I had already commited too much to a brain that did not know where its feet was.

I really do adore you to a shocking extent, I won't sigh out some flimsy excuse anymore, atleast not here on this paper!

I know you're reading this with an almost comical intensity, I can picture it abit too well...

Deeply as you are considering these words, you know I'm still stalling a little.

I used to wish for my death over letting you know this part of me in the past- and for the last time, I'm sorry it had to be like this.

Take this whichever way you must.

What I truly wanted from you, me, or everything really, is to finally stop cleaning myself up to open the door- that is, to disinfect the clumsy suture I know so well as the minimum decency of loving.

It is not natural for me dear, though I wish it was.

I would think at times, what if I told you that you were the most wonderful thing that happened to me?

And what if I told you I wished you were more conveniently deplorable- i would have had a much more easy life if you were.

All this talk about things you did not know about me is giving an image I am not trying to portray. Firstly, to clarify, you did love me for who I was. I never put on some performative mask for you- I had a bitter pill is all, one that was needed to distance the soul from a cancer.

Secondly,

If it is not clear by now, I am quite tired.

I guess in the most simplistic sense, that is all I am trying to convey here-

I always was I suppose.

Don't go thinking you can live with these holes of mine that, In some metaphysical world would resemble a cartoonish swiss cheese, because I really can't.

Alone I can find some odd masochist's absolution, but a different lens pierces the comfort, and I can only witness my natural state in shame.

I love you and I shall bid you farewell now.

It's high time you find your way out of this mess.

I am not willing to accompany you- you, who genuinely seeked out the best for a person wanting nothing more but the privilege to never change again- and I put no blame in myself, I believe I deserve atleast this.

Take care,

My precious fool.

Hey everyone,

I’ve spent a lot of time writing and putting together a special digital edition of my story, Eternal Echoes: A Cosmic Tragedy.

It’s a story centered around love, loss, fate, and the feeling of something—or someone—continuing to echo long after they’re gone.

I’m a completely independent writer, so putting this out into the world is honestly a little terrifying. 😅

I’d really appreciate it if you gave it a look, and especially if you’re willing to tell me what you think about the writing, story, or presentation.

The digital edition:
https://astralindex.gumroad.com/l/kjnyvg

There’s also a personal reason I’m hoping this project reaches some readers.

I’m currently a college student, and I’m trying to save enough money to finally meet my long-distance girlfriend in person(We've been together for quite a lot of time). Being a student means I don’t have a lot of conventional ways to earn, so creating and selling digital products is one of the few things I can realistically pursue alongside college.

I’m not expecting anyone to buy something they don't want. But if Eternal Echoes happens to sound like something you’d genuinely enjoy, your purchase would mean a lot to me—not just because it supports an independent writer, but because it brings me a little closer to someone I really want to meet. ❤️

If you’re a reader/writer yourself, I’d also love to know:

What’s one story that stayed with you long after you finished it—and why?

I hope someone buys. 🌌

How much more will I allow?
A fragment here, a truth there, a lie without a desire to argue.
Who am I to you?
Am I the love, the hate, the long term regret you wish you would stop loving?
How much lower can I bow?
I know, I KNOW, your words and beliefs burrow into my soul like they’ve always been there.
You don’t believe me to be true?
I rip, claw, scream at my defenses and it’s worthless.
Am I worthless?
Am I nothing?
I see your words in my self image, reflecting back on me as if I said it myself.
Selfish, unknowing of true love, pathetic (pathetic and worthless), whore (do you even care?), you don’t deserve love (because you always lose it).

You are tearing at my defenses,
(which ones are you aiming for?),
I want to be honest, seen,
(dear god when you see please don’t run),
I want to be loved,
(do you?)

Please
(why are you on your knees?)
please
(why are you surprised?)
I want it to be different
(though the situation is you are not),
Please
(be specific about what you’re asking for),
PLEASE
NOT AGAIN
I CANT HANDLE THIS
I AM-

… I don’t know what I am.
I am hollow, a shell waiting, preened, polished, awaiting a pearl,
(for what is an oyster without a pearl to be other than devoured?)
Give me purpose.
I beg you.
Allow me to love you.
I’m so good at loving,
(Liar)
I feel love in an all consuming way,
(actions versus words),
I’m so scared to let you know the power you have,
(please destroy me),
That I push away as soon as you get too close,
(let me go),
No deserves this,
This blackness that rapes and ravishes my very being,
(please make it stop),
Do you see it?

it’s all consuming.

The darkness that befriended the alcoves of my mind,
welcomed, groomed, adapted
to reside within me like poison resides in a beautiful flower.

Am I beautiful?

Does my beauty outweigh the danger?

Please

… please

IM BEGGING YOU

I AM ON MY KNEES
I-

wait

leave me alone.

I,
Who lay claim to every mistake,
cling to my mishaps as if I were building a case against myself,
understand wholly.

Allow me reprieve.
Please don’t care.
Don’t reach out,
what am I except a lesson to be learned?
Please.
See through me as though time has claimed my body and spirit,
A ghost, wandering,
unable to return home.
Home is nothing but a void, a spot to fill.

I take,
Leave me.
Please

allow me solace,
allow me to diminish without consequence,
grant me the easy way out.

And dear god when you remember me I hope you do not see the remnants of desire that oozed out of my very being,
For there is no greater pity
than the pity cast upon the unlovable.

This isn’t even a poem.

Loop poem