they wont let me not give you a name

I feel sad for the little girl who had so much motivation and will, she loved being alive, she loved flying and dancing, she didnt hate mirrors or herself. Now i don't feel desrie to be, or to do, and the only thing that gives me hope is the sadness that i feel when i think of my own emptiness, when i think back over the las couple years and realize i have not been living at all, that i have only been coping, and washing myself, and surviving. even surviving feels a stretch, it is more an existence of resenting, it is mud around my body. i cannot even write like i once could write from despair, i cannot paint or dance or run, i drag myself from bed and spend too long getting ready yet doing nothing, for i cannot attain the beauty that my body aches to embody, and my classes are strange because what am i doing them for? what do i want to be? i want to be nothing, and i want everything i do not have if only for something with which to occupy my mind and pass away the time so i can look back and think how little i lived, and i sometimes imagine what my life would be if i loved myself, and i wonder if i would feel happiness and desire and drive and motivation, or if it would be an even less excusable form or resent. i want to want to do and to want to be and yet i feel so small when i imagine wherever to begin for it is either everything or nothing at all that i strive for, i used up my will when i was a child, i wrote a novel and trained my body like a full time job like i was getting paid and not paying, and it gave me joy because i had talent, and i had a future, and the adults were proud. i don't know how to do anything for the joy of it, because joy feels like a pointless aspiration for an end goal, and so i half-way do, and i cannot bring myself to go and add periods or commas or even pick up my phone from the table to scroll through the videos watching everyone else do and be so elegantly and aesthetically and beautifully, though this watching perhaps would make me feel a certain longing that is close enough to being that it would suffice, it would pass the time, it would