My time has finally come to tell you that I no longer love you. I need to set you free. I can do so much better without you. This is so true, you ruined my dreams. You shattered my soul. I know because I allowed you. All because you're selfish and kept your life a secret for somebody else, so I'm walking away from it all today, a brand new person is here to stay this time. There will be nothing you can say because I really should have said Good-bye like yesterday. But once again I stayed praying, you would change, instead I just endured another one of your games. I'm no longer a player in your crazy masquerade. I will never look back again. Because the road I'm walking on never ends. Pain and heartache is all you've ever caused and too many times I allowed you to ruin me and I can no longer allow this to continue, this has to end today.

You write it.

It sucks.

So you write it again.

Still sucks.

You wonder who you’re kidding—

calling it work, calling yourself a writer.

It feels like a joke.

A hobby playing dress-up.

But you’re still here.

The world didn’t ask.

It’s not waiting.

There’s no audience.

No prize.

Just that thing in your gut

that keeps hauling you back

like a bad habit you can’t shake.

That’s the hinge.

Not love.

Not talent.

Not some myth about "calling".

Just return.

Dragging your sorry ass back to the page.

That’s the hinge.

And the lever?

It’s your hand moving

when your head says don’t bother.

It’s typing through the static,

scraping at one dead paragraph

until it bleeds something half-honest.

Knowing no one’s watching.

Knowing it changes nothing.

But doing it clean.

You thought belief made you a writer.

But belief fades.

It always does.

What matters is

who shows up

when it’s gone.

That’s who writes the book.

-

Hemingway called his work shit. Celeste Ng rewrote whole books. David Foster Wallace drowned in doubt. Every writer you admire thought they weren’t good enough. Hell, they still think that.

They wrote anyway.