I’ve seen some very strange things happening lately, and I’m struggling to understand my place in this Protagonize Universe. People laugh and comment about my profile, and I’m uncertain whether it is directed with me, or at me. Rumors abound that I’m an alcoholic, though truly, I rarely drink and have never touched a drug. It’s depressing to think I’ve portrayed myself in such a manner, and now struggle to regain my reputation as a competent writer. It was my feeble attempt at humor that caused this lifetime of disrepute, and I fear I’ll never overcome this mistake.
As I wander through the various ramblings and literary displays of other authors, I realize my own ineptitude as a writer. It makes me wonder how these others spend their lives. Is there some Protagonize meeting place, where the “gifted” authors sit by a fountain and drench themselves in wisdom and creativity? Was I initially scouted for an invite, and found unworthy? Oh, diary, if given the opportunity, I believe I can step up to the wondrous literary exploits of the brilliant Tasha, fearless Jack, and my unwitting muse, Cheshire. Nothing would make me happier than an invite – and not only to the fountain -but the chance to add a chapter to one of their stories would greatly enhance my confidence as an aspiring author. Alas, nearly 100 chapters have been written and I’ve yet to see my name on A Story About Our Fellow Authors, Story Fragment Challenge or even the Poetry Battlez Challengez. I am Rudolph at the reindeer games. I am the little train that could, but I have no mountain to climb. I am the boy on the bench just praying for a chance to play something besides left out.
Oh diary, if I had to pick a word to describe my life it would be Ironic. I order breakfasts of chicken and eggs and wonder which will come first. I pee on fire hydrants in front of my dog. I take pictures of cheese and don’t know what to say. I wonder what happens when a synchronized swimmer drowns. I am a friend of morally bankrupt millionaires. And now, I am on Protagonize, the ultimate writing website, and I am written off, edited out, erased from memory, thrown to the bottom of the pile.
I know this is a sacred spot for my feelings. I know I’d never want my thoughts made public. But just this once, if someone could open you, look into the soul that is both mine and yours, see your spine, and the lack of mine, I’d be forever grateful. In your pages, you hold my scream for redemption. And like that tree in the forest, I wonder if anyone can hear me.