u/KindCucumber1923

I am jealous of talented young writers. I am jealous of the recognition you receive from those with authority. I also resent myself for losing all ability to appreciate other writers’ words the moment I catch a glimpse of their outward success. Witnessing the writing of various peers every day, I either feel clever and accomplished, or mediocre and defeated.
So what conclusion has this long-standing contradiction reached? Nothing has changed. Recognition, whether from authority or from myself, has yet to arrive.
They are like carriages. The carriage lingers in some fairytale distance, just out of reach. The carriage stands there smiling. The carriage has no intention of coming to my side.

But what I hate most is the truly gifted. They render my carefully constructed metaphors unnecessary jokes—because with a single feeling, a single stroke of the pen, they produce a row of beautiful images that can only be felt, never spoken.
So this is what a real writer looks like. Innate ability. Every peer I have ever witnessed, compared to him, is nothing more than an ordinary person who can string a few words together. And that small shred of “talent” I once took pride in is now nothing but a bloody, pitiful wreck.
He is so utterly beyond reach—not like a giant hand pressing down on me, because he carries no physical weight at all. He is not the fairytale carriage either, for at least the carriage might still be on its way. He is a mountain from myth. A mountain passed down through countless mouths, yet seen by no one. Legend says it represents writing itself. Around the mountain, beyond the drifting mist, there is not a single living soul—truly, not a bird in flight for a thousand mountains, not a footprint on ten thousand paths.
One day I finally glimpsed the shadow of that mountain,
and then I simply ceased to exist where I had been standing. Every trace of my presence on this earth was uprooted and hurled into outer space.
I hate that mountain. I hate that you finally made me understand my own smallness. I hate that you turned my arrogance into shame. I hate that I hate you this much—and you will never know any of it: all my wretched hatred, and that fear of mine which has long since moved beyond jealousy entirely.
Writing is clearly my only skill that might have any connection to talent. And yet even my highest point amounts to nothing more than this—the mountain cannot see me, because I am merely an ant a thousand miles away.
So I can only give up, furious as I am. I can only wish you brilliance in everything that lies ahead. May your mountain range stand tall forever.
May you never encounter a true “genius”
the way I encountered you.