I sighed and picked up my pen again. It was useless. I wouldn't produce anything of value. Anything that anyone would appreciate. I wouldn't change the world with one little story, with one witty attempt to write down my feelings, just a shatter of words. I wouldn't be anything special. Just another story written by someone random. Nothing more. What I wanted, was something everyone did. I wanted to be noticed. I didn't need to reach the front page of the news and get my name in capitals, but.. I wanted people to see me. To appreciate what I do. To become visible. To show those bullies I am something. To show them I really can do something. To tell them I'm not useless, or fat, or a nerd. I wanted to be un-invisible. But it wouldn't work. Everything I'd write would be a pathetic attempt to glory. And the writing itself was no fun either. It just made me more hurt. Just like all those countless people who did reach glory, who weren't invisible by far. Who had a lot of strangers admiring them every day.

A teardrop concealed the first letter I had written. 'I'. The 'I' was now being blurred out, the ink washed away by my salty tears. I was being washed away. I was being concealed and I was nothing, nothing more than just a droplet on a piece of paper. I liked to imagine that drop would turn red. My tears would turn a deep, dark, crimson red. They would be drops of blood, and not just little kid's tears. They would be drops dripping from fresh wounds, carved in my lower arm. Every time I thought about that, the flow of tears grew bigger and turned into a river. A river full of confused emotions, a river full of dreams and hopes and regrets for what I did. And hate. A burning hate flowed through that river. It was the hate for myself, and for my art, my writing, my life and my bullies. Hate for what had happened to me. Hate for that time I promised someone I'd never be that depressive to turn that river red.

A call from downstairs. "Baby, are you okay?" I coughed and tried to make my voice sound as normal as possible, hastily wiping the tears away. "Yeah.. Yeah I'm fine." I'm fine. I was far from that, but I would be stupid to tell differently. There were people out there that really needed help. People more important than me, people who had red rivers flowing from their arms and were all alone. I was all alone, but I was better off than them. I didn't need any help. I didn't have any problems, and if I did I would solve them on my own. I would just need to write better and I'd be fine. Everything would be alright. I would be alright, too. And then I could show the people I love my real smile. The one I was born with, this little, happy girl, laughing and cheering. I'm none of that anymore.

I sniffed and pushed away the paper and pen. Instead I grabbed my laptop, searching for inspiration. Maybe I'd write better then. I was wrong, because the first websites I clicked on had this ranking. 'Best Essays Of This Month (Click Here!)' it read. And I clicked, and clicked and clicked. I scrolled through the pages and profiles of amazing writers. I scrolled through heaps of bullets being fired at my self-confidence. But I didn't want to stop. I wanted to be a better writer so I could be alright. The thought ran through my head, asking and asking for attention until it got it. It did. It got as much attention as it wanted. It filled me with even more sadness than before. But this time, I was determined not to cry. I would write, and things would be alright.

07:58. I didn't write anything yet, while I had pushed myself to write something today. I had heaps of homework, but I didn't care. It wasn't important, my marks were awful anyway and doing my homework wouldn't keep me on the school I wanted to be on. I was there so I could do something creative. It was of no use. I couldn't write and the world had shown me. My attempts were awful and my scraps even worse. I was not a native speaker, I didn't have this big vocabulary and yet I had to 'compete' with native speakers. Native American speakers, at least 5 years older than I am, who had won countless of writing awards and had a Jr. title in their local newspaper. They were known. People liked what they did. No one ever liked me. I never won any fancy awards and my English isn't the best sometimes. My writing is learned by doing a lot, and not by any picture-perfect writing classes. Is that maybe why no one likes me? Why am I not good enough? What's wrong with me? Is it that I happen to have countless grammatical errors and don't have this huge vocabulary? Is it how I look, that I wear my nieces old sweaters and that my hair seems to explode sometimes? Is it that I'm young, that I have no reputation or awards on my name? What is it? Why doesn't anyone like what I do?

09:31. I do not like what I do. I hate what I do. And there are only a handful of people appreciating my works. I'm an awful writer and the world knows it.