Rather disillusioned about the world lately. The futility of trying to create something that people appreciate and enjoy is wearisome, when this, the precise function my art is designed for, is met with disregard and ignorance. I don't mean my drawings so much as my games, which I dedicate years of time and waning sanity into, and for what? Measly, miniscule download counts, poor ratings, and unappreciative "reviews" that are no more than senseless nitpicking devoid of any actual review in itself.

I can't tell if it's just that I lack the promotional resources to reach the right audience or amount of people, or perhaps a poor choice in my part on selecting the subject matter, or worse, that maybe I am just as terrible an artist as my games' poor reception would indicate. But how can that possibly be, when I feel that, into these projects, I've poured every amount of creative genius and every ounce of sweated labor I can muster? I don't believe I'm selfish for desiring a little recognition for what I do, but perhaps it's that my reviewers don't understand what it takes to make these things. Four years of self-induced social withdrawal, late nights, skipped meals, and soar throats from screaming at the computer screen ought to be worth more than a 6 out of 10 rating.

Of course, it doesn't help the matter either when drawings get overlooked on top of this... I think 11 page views is positively the worst I've ever done, for something I think is approaching the best I've made. This is probably something that's happened to many dA members, and they could confirm it, unless they're infinitely popular somehow and score thousands of hits just for accidentally clicking the "submit" button. But is it just chance that decides the way things fall? I really hope so; that way I don't have to start screaming at the unfairness of the issue, because if it's not chance, then it's someone's fault. Not that I really would start screaming-I'm a gentleman, after all. The worst I'll do is post a journal and then go cry to my friend the bus stop pole for support as I'm waiting to go to work.

So saddening, how the imagined world pales to what is real. One can imagine such promising dreams, infinite realities diverging with each idea or inspiration, and naught but a fraction of them will ever become real - and those that do, only fester and rot, never approaching the glorious ideals for which they were conceived. They're stillborn, and the next day not even existing, just bitter memories and remorse leaving a giant hole in one's spirit, and they're wondering why they even bothered to try to reach such dreams.