Whiskey-Hotel-Echo-November

India

Whiskey-Romeo-India-Tango-Echo.

By Blazeraptor54

A young man, pudgy in build, sat on his broken bed typing. He took a deep breath, looking down at his computer. His friends kept him in his paces, but as time goes on the day gets too long. Work, work, work, that's all he knew. He came home from his twelve hour a day job, to spend perhaps a little bit of time on his PS4.

Work.

Work.

Work.

He had new project, not a fanfiction, but a book. Already, he created the world in his head, but knew that he couldn't have enough time. To maintain what he created before and what he was going to create now. He wouldn't quit on his persona of Blazeraptor54, his hazel eyes scanned over his computer screen.

"I can't keep doing this anymore," murmured the young man. "I'm tired of bustin' my ass off at work, and at home."

"If I'm not cleaning, then I'm writing, if I'm not writing I'm at work. I sleep on the weekends, to catch up on the three-hour naps I take over the week, I'm tired." The young man said to the computer, scratching his auburn colored beard.

He took great pride, really, he always wanted to make people smile. That was his motis operanti, his niche, in life. The time he spent, the six long years on drove him to creating a book. The young man had demons, however.

Thoughts of the bottle, how it soothed his aching body. The thoughts of the end, when it should come, and if he would bring it upon himself? These all circle, like a true Uzumaki, in his head. Slowly, leaning his head back, the young man looked at his room.

In a small house that he worked hard to pay for.

He wanted to try, try to open a dating account, but he felt he didn't have the time. He wrote about love, overcoming odds, and friendship.

All because he wanted to feel what it felt like to have these things. To have people who'd love him unconditionally, to have someone there to understand the demons in his head. Slowly, typing, he thought about what to do for this three-day weekend.

Work on his book, Alomesteria?

Open his OneDrive and pull up the files for Screaming Sun, Primrose, or some other old story? He made promises, so many promises.

Like Atlas, to forever hold his world upon his shoulders, he felt honored and burdened. His hazel eyes scanned over the screen, taking a moment to correct mistakes, at least to the best of his ability. A book by his side, Zoo, laid with a bookmark in it about halfway through.

Scrolling through his phone, he found a song, playing it as typed out certain scenes. Big Christmas dinners, holidays, and all the good things. Then, when everyone would be happy, he would hit them with reality.

Sometimes he just wanted to express his own suffering through a façade. Growing up, he loved anime and manga, he was a weeb. However, he loved it, and it was an entire world to escape too. To escape the feelings of loneliness in his little room, in his small house. To escape the views of a couch of where his grandmother would used to sleep, where his grandfather would watch M.A.S.H and the old hallmark.

Dementia and cancer took his grandfather. An aneurism would come a few years later to take his grandmother, and like that, he felt like a burden. However, he couldn't be the weak one. Typing his scene out for Screaming Sun's family gathering, it reminded him heavily of his old Christmas get togethers.

When friends didn't abuse substances, where old family friends didn't lose their fight with depression, and disease didn't take away people he loved. Sitting at the computer, he had to stop, his eyes watery. Soft, subtle, sobs escaped his lips.

He didn't want someone beating on his door, to break his concentration. Finishing the scene, he knew the reviews would call it cheesy for Naruto to be breaking down. It was to be expected, people who had everything, never know how to feel it is gone.

A young man, in a mad world.

Perhaps, he would fail as an author.

The truth is that he couldn't focus much and felt constantly under pressure. Quality, quality, quality, over and over in his head. So many incomplete stories, so many failures, and so much disappointment. His dream just to achieve a book, and just make everyone else happy.

Smile, smile, and never break face.

Ignore, ignore, the cold inside.

It became a game, a game between him and his demons. Would the bottle win, would he fall back into an old habit of drinking every week until he blacked out? Or, would much older demons, that looked like him claim his heart.

Looking in the mirror of his dresser, seeing his face by leaning to his left, he just sighed. Going back to silent existence, locked away in his small room, in front of a small laptop. Johnny Cash softly played in his ears, and though he was going bowling this weekend, he felt no joy.

He was scared to reveal these feelings. Slowly, he stopped typing all together. Leaning against his headboard, he just stared at himself in the mirror. His insomnia medication was his in the nightstand, and he thought for minute.

He could just get in his truck, drive around, and perhaps be okayish. Though, every time he drove, he would feel the unending feeling of just unbuckling his seatbelt and driving into a tree. How many nights, three a week? He would come home, just to sit in his truck, and try to convince himself that he earned his keep.

He needed help, but was scared, scared of just being thrown into asylum and made to eat pills. Nothing, he would feel nothing, he would be a zombie.

Yawning, the young man with hazel eyes just opened another document tab. Starting a story about alcoholism and depression, Primrose.

Once again, he had to face his demons in the face. Though, with no sword, he had a pen in his hand. If he couldn't be happy in this world, perhaps he could create worlds where someone would be happy or gain the happiness.

His phone laid by him, playing music into his headphones.

There, Blazeraptor54 found his peace, and took solace in the music.

People voted Blake this time around, perhaps he would try not to screw it up again.

When I write.

I write this as a message.
Don't consider this a cry for help.
I'm in pain.
I don't want anything to gain.

To write, is to play God.
Creating a world.
With any amount of imagination afforded.

I'm still alive.
Trying to survive.
The bottle calls my name.
It's always the same.

Substances, chemicals, drugs.
Whatever you make of them.
They bind you to a system.

Love.
Fly like a dove.
In a world with infinity possibility.
Nothing is ever is a hinderance.
Nothing is ever a liability.

Thank you.

For six years of writing, and to six more years, hopefully. This is just a personal window to my life, its not a fanfic, this is legitimately a small little one chapter biography. I'm a suffer of chronic depression, and formely, I used to drink heavily to borderline alocholism. I'm not some random person behind a computer, writing fanfics that are edgy for no reason to just be edgy, I legitatemly rip pieces of my soul out.

my hopes, my memories, and dreams.

Screaming Sun
Primrose.
Shinobi

All resume production in a couple of weeks.

God, I believe in you, give me strength.

The strength to change the things that I can, and to accept the things I cannot.