All I wanted was to write this book. I want to help others, but the more I chase it, the more things get in the way or put me down. I share pieces of it for feedback, only to have incoherent disgust thrown at me. I can’t work a job long before I have to quit because I don’t have the energy to work in two places at once. I disappoint my family every second I do this stupid shit, and now all I’m left with is this passion that is slowly dimming out with the impossible odds. I know that without fulfilling that, I’m already dead. Everything is closing down into one option, the option that I’m trying to fight so hard to show others another way. It’s so ironic and pathetic. Narcissistic, even. Who am I to speak above people and tell them how to get through such a thing? For something I know myself, how do I manage to be that ignorant? What reason am I even breathing for anymore? I’m slowly forgetting the answer to that.