I feel lost. Not like a fish out of water, but more like a fish that�s never been in water and knows he�s missing something. I don�t know what I want. I�m not even sure of what I need. My talents are all mediocre. I don�t really excel at anything except mediocrity. Of course I know that there�s always going to be someone who is better, but it seems that everyone is better at everything. I want to be a writer, I suppose. I don�t even know if I want that anymore. The more I read the more I find just how lacking I am. I write well enough to crank out A papers and maybe squeeze in a short story every now and then, but I could never see myself competing in the literary world. I�m just not artistic enough. Nobody in my family�s artistic, so why would I think I�m any different?

But I can�t give up on this. I can�t give up because it�s the only thing I know I�m even remotely good at. I think I�m going to end up being one of those 40 year old guys who works at a factory somewhere still trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life. But if there�s one thing I�ve learned about life, it�s that it never becomes what you want it to become. It consists of wishful thinking and reassembled childhood dreams. If only time wasn�t so unforgiving. It�s like it�s angry with you because you get to leave and it doesn�t. Because it�s the prison, the prisoner, and the jailer, all at the same time, and we�re all just visiting friends we never knew we had.

But, as they say, practice makes perfect. So I will continue. I will continue until I break through mediocrity or until I find something better to bide my time with than these silly words of mine. I only want the world to hear me. I only want the world to turn around and say �I know that guy. He helped me understand life.� That�s why I want to be a writer. That�s why I bide my time with these silly words of mine. And I will not be silenced by �the old bald cheater� anymore. I will write, and I will write well.

My blood will turn to ink.