My nose is blushing pink and air can’t filter through. Its a blocked road with men frantically hammering away, trying to make things smooth again.

So, I’m ill. I’ve got lots of college work to be getting on with and I can’t help but believe I’m fucked, as I’m not an intellectual. Just because I read and watch films doesn’t make me smart, not if i’m inconsistent. I don’t create often enough. I feel considerably stupid most of the time and I think people look down at me because of that. People condescend me. All I want to be is good at making the things I enjoy; I want to write stories, screenplays and create films. I want to read every book and retain words so I become a better human, a wealthy writer. But I don’t. I just embrace these aspects of art as they make me happy. The world is filled with these little gems that I love, yet I don’t give myself over to creativity so I can join in. So I can try. I shut myself down continuously. I’m the captain of my own hate club.

This was Lauren, being honest and ill about her incredibly low self-esteem.

What am I, if I can’t create? If I don’t allow myself too. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to breathe and make things that aren’t good.

I’m a coward.