Victorious

She always dreamed of going here. Never did she think that she'd actually make it. Competition had never been her favorite thing. When she was young, she was always the best at everything, and as the amount of her competitors expanded, her confidence began to deteriorate into much of nothing. Like a schriveled ball in her chest, right were her heart should be. Weird, how when she invisions her personifed confideince, it usually replaces her steady heart. Weird how it's face always seems to resemble a decrepit widow. Lost it's lover. Though it's lover was merely more wins. Now the stakes are higher than ever and she can't handle it. She thinks it's just the stress or the clouding depression that tugs at her, dragging her into the moist cobbled-stoned well that is creativity isolation and drought. Now, she wishes more than anything that she had never been good at anything, and had discovered her talents later, before the competitors were fresher. She made it, though, in the end. It was painful and she lost things we will never attain again, in the process. She lost parts of herself that will never be repaid. Dept that will never be reimbersed. She cares but not as much as she cares of the victory of proving herself, her doubting inconceivably unconfident self, that she made it.


And a humorous depiction of this prose...