Nothing

I want to be a writer. Every time I open up the blank document and start typing, my mind is flooded with voices that scream, “you’re not a writer, what are you doing”.

So I close my laptop.

Sometimes I think that I might be a bad person. One moment, I’m full of optimism; dreams of success saturate my brain.. Then it reaches capacity and, like some twisted fucking destiny, I’m flooded with lack luster emotions of emptiness. I scream at myself all day that I am nothing.

Nothing.

Maybe that’s the real problem with my generation. We’ve been told our entire lives that we were something special- then we grew up and realized that we were just another curbside performance. All eyes are on us but we have no money in our pockets and no instrument worth playing.

My name is Amber and I’m not a curbside performance. I’m a real. fucking. person. And I care about everything. I care about people. I care about how they feel after politically charged controversies and I care about alternative medicine. I care about the economy and the way that advertising companies are allowed to market to our youth. All it takes is one comment- one negative reaction, to turn it all off. Then I care about nothing.

Nothing.

I’m not a big person. My actions feel so unwavering but the second I feel hurt, I shut down. I might be nothing, but I’m not a bad person. My heart is strong and my opinions; untiring. I cannot be broken by anyone but myself. I am a writer.