/lit/ - Literature

>>16607497
I grow more and more tired of this world day by day. I don't find much in the way of companionship or just the mere pleasure of company with people around me, nor do I think I have the fortitude to be a modern day hermit. I detest the age I live in, I detest its politics, its cultural and intellectual sterility, and even the roads that it offers to me as a way out. Giving up generic life goals that seemed unreachable for me anyways seem more and more appealing to me, but I can't help but think that's just me thinking the grapes were sour anyways.

What should I do, then? Why was I brought into this world when neither the world nor myself have much use for each other? If I were artistically talented, I could probably forge something out of my predicament, but I have no delusions about my competence in that regard, either. I'm 23, 24 in a couple months, and I have no degree, no driving license, no relationships of any sort, nothing. I'm going to enroll in a university again next year (higher education is cheap here) for a 5 year program, after which I'll probably be able to become a translator, but I dread being among 18 year olds, leeching off my mother for 5 more years, or meeting my former peers and letting them see how pathetic I am. Will I even be able to work, will anyone employ me if I turn up at their door with a blank resume besides my degree at 29? I forced myself to try and earn a degree I wasn't even particularly interested in for 5 years because I didn't know what I wanted to be back then - there are probably very few people foolish enough to try to force themselves to do something they're obviously not meant for for such a long time.

I'm such a fool.

How do you deal with being born too dumb, being born into a prole milieu, and being educated too late and too little? Whenever I feel the desire to write I can't help but feel that I would be making a fool of myself by pretending to be someone I'm not meant to be either because of my lack of talent, lack of education/intelligence, and my overall boring life that didn't present me with many opportunities or pecularities other than getting to scurry along the ground like a rat. Just about everyone I would be going against would have gone through my country's equivalent of Oxbridge alongside with being part of the old boys' club from the get-go - the artistic milieu of my country is so insular and incestuous that I probably would just get bumped off the map even if I wrote something truly great by means of some divine intervention.

if god real why bad thing happen