Spark.

You don't know what it is, but it's something. Something that calls for you, something that pulls you, something that gives you meaning. So you pursue it like wolf after its prey:

Without hesitation, you grasp it.

You write it down, you draw it, you compose.

A fervent, fiery adoration entices you. A calling.

So you do it, you pour your heart out, you think of how amazing it'll be and then...

It's done.

You look over it again, check for any errors, and listen to it over and over. Has to be perfect.

The fans will cheer, they'll praise you for your worth, and you'll be famous!

The thoughts warm your heart and fuel your passion.

Your cursor looms over the post button.

Sweat trickles down your forehead. Your heart pounds. You want to run but you don't.

The page loads, you see the post, and you smile. You did it.

So you go back to your life, do your things, and you check the post:

Nothing.

Maybe it's too early? Last posted, six hours ago. Maybe it's bad timing? It's three in the afternoon. Maybe people are shy? Other content is getting attention.

Something hurts but you don't know why.

It's just bad luck, it's what you tell yourself.

So you go back to it.

Write, draw, compose. But...

There's a keen twinge in the back of your mind. You shake your head and keep going.

You check the post again: nothing. It happens to new people, it's okay, just have to try again.

The cursor hovers over the post button. Something pits in your chest while your mind pleads for you to not: you do it anyway.

The page loads, you see the post, you smile but it's not the same as before. It hurts.

Why does doing something you love hurt?

You return to the day, do your things, and tell yourself that this time it'll do amazing!

It doesn't.

There's no reviews, there's no likes/reblogs/kudos, there's nothing.

Pieces of your heart crumble while it rots.

Silence hurts.

You stare at the part where there should be something: there isn't. You leaned back in your chair while everything numbs.

People have school, they're busy. People have jobs, don't be a bother. People will eventually get to it, it happens.

You lie to yourself.

Open up the file. Stare at the blank screen. you try to create but something drags you under.

You don't want to write, you don't want to draw, you don't want to compose. Nothing is better.

And like a flick of a switch, your passion is slaughtered.

Why is doing something you love so hard?

You lie in bed and ruminate on every possible thing that went wrong.
You toss and turn as everything numbs: can't sleep.
You tell yourself you never were anything.
Trash, worthless, why try?
It feels like drowning.
Why does it hurt?
I used to love it.
Now I hate it!

Days drone by, time slips from your fingers. Not like it matters.

...Fuck it...

You check up on it.

One notification.

The spark returns, you smile, and you read it:

'Looking for hot, horny singles in your area? Click here to find them!'

You try to laugh...but it's too painful to. There's no point, happiness isn't for you.

The synapses of your brain snaps, your heart breaks, and you search for something to feel good.

You rummage at other's works. They have reviews, you click it and read:

'Wow, this is so good! Keep up the amazing work. You're talented.'

Your faces scrunches up but you feel bad for being jealous. Disgusting.

'I love your work, please keep it up! I enjoy every minute of it.'

You try to be grateful for them but it isn't fair.

'I've been through everywhere and no one is as great as you, you make everyone look like armatures because of your talent. You should publish your work and get out there since no one is as good as you. You have such an amazing talent that no one will ever grasp because you're just that good. No one is as good as you nor ever will be!'

You pretend these are for you. But it's a lie. The pain burrows into your wailing mind before searing tears tumble down your face: It's too much so you search for an escape.

Anything is better than here.

You stare at the images of puppies and kittens; it doesn't stop the pain. You watch something on Netflix; it doesn't stop the pain. You spend time with friends; it mends the pain a little.

But like cancer, the tormenting thoughts creeps back in.

You're not good enough.
You never were good at anything.
You ruin everything you have and have wasted your time.
You bother everyone and bring nothing. No one loves you nor have they ever.
You aren't worth anyone's time, look how no one cares because you'll never fit in.

So you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. It doesn't help like everything else because...

You are stuck with you.

The days drone, you forget about it, and you let your dreams die.

Take your mind off of it, forget about it, just move on. Like usual.

But like a rash, there's an urge. You stare at the file on your desktop. It taunts you.

Open it up, stare at the file, and tinker with it. But:

It's different, it's hard to focus. It's pointless.

You check on your post. Nothing.

Exit out of the file. Left click. Scroll down to delete.

It's in the bin.

Your heart plummets and stomach knots. A keen sensation surges through your veins.

Open it up, left click, and the cursor hovers over: EMPTY RECYCLE BIN.

All the time studying, improving, and pouring your heart into it. Wasted.

What's the point in doing what you love if it's only going to hurt?

You lean back in your seat and cover your face in your quivering, sweaty palms while you sniffle as blistering tears welled in your eyes because the pain is unbearable; you fixate on the escape pod until you curl up into a ball: fuck it.

Undo delete.

Wasted too much time on it. Your stomach pits while searing bile snakes up your throat.

Turn and twist in sleep, stare at the ceiling, and wait for death while your brain nags at you.

Fuck, is there a way to opt out of your own brain?

Drugs...drink...or suicide...It won't come to that. You hope.

A new day to experience misery. A new day to feel completely alone. A new day, which means closer to death!

HAHAHAHhahahahahaha...fuck it.

You're not meant to fly. That's the way it is.

Countless days drone by without hope as usual.
You die a little on the inside as usual.
It hurts as usual.

You check the post again because why not? Nothing. You check to see how new people are doing:

People love their work.

You tell yourself that they deserve it but it isn't fair. So you exit and repeat the process again because THAT'S LIFE!

Were you just not worth anyone's time? Was it that bad? Maybe life is just unfair? Doesn't matter.

You do your daily things and find small joys in the monotony but the dull pain clutches your aching heart for you're wedlock at this point, and like that annoying friend everyone has, who won't go away, your brain finds the perfect time to make the day into shit because why not.

It's pointless, IT'S ALL POINTLESS, IT'S ALL FUCKING POINTLESS.

...Fuck it...

You take a long shower, might as well talk to yourself; you cook whatever instant food you have, would've wasted time if you tried to learn; you sit down at your computer, there's nothing else to do.

Time slips by.

You stare in the screen like it'd magically have all the answers.

It's all the same either way. So...

Fuck it.

You open up the file, stare at that cursed blank screen that laughs at you, but this time...

Words pop up on the screen, lines appear to form an image, and there's a beat.

It still hurts but it also hurts to not. So you push through the pain.

You have a sentence. You have a shape. You have a rhythm. And you made it.

A smile dimples your cheek, and like a child that discovered Legos:

You create something. You created something personal. You created something that's apart of you.

You don't know what it is, but it's something. Something that calls for you, something that pulls you, something that gives you meaning. So you pursue it like wolf after its prey.

It's not amazing, it's not perfect, but it's good enough.

And like a pro, you make it without doubt or hesitation. It gives meaning.

A fervent, fiery adoration entices you. A spark.

You write, you draw, you compose. For you are an ARTIST.

You express your pain, your love, your life through it.

An unstoppable force and the immovable object all at once.

You post your work not for them but for YOU and even if it hurts:

Silence does not mean you have to end in silence.

YOU fight through the pain.
YOUlearn from every mistake.
YOU move forward and do what you love for the sake of you.

Climb the mountain and never look down.
Spread your wings as far as you can and soar.
Grow like a lotus in the murky water and reach for the sun.

It doesn't matter if you don't receive attention because who cares?

YOU don't need validation from random people online.

For you are an artist and no one can tell you otherwise.

So find that spark, the one that you fell in love with from the start because it makes it worth it and never let go of it nor let it die within you despite the silence for you're an amazing person with a gift, the will, and the ability to grow. So in the face of failure, never give up: good enough is simply good enough.