A Reflection: What is the point?

My entire longevity, I have been timorous, taciturn, and limited to internal tempestuousness. I have practiced the most careful asceticism I could muster, but not out of self-discipline. I have lived my entire life in fear. My self-esteem has reached its nadir, not that it could be distinguished from a zenith. In hindsight, I suppose as a child I was too sensitive. My self-esteem persisted to plummet, and I, in turn, maintained it with each invective I came into contact with. The concatenate series of events made me what I am and I hate it. There is no single individual I bear more animosity towards than myself. They say that we are our harshest critics. I do not criticize. I am a pessimist, but a realist. I have the perspicacity to see what is my poignant pessimism, and my cunning realism. I see how incapable I am, I see how weak, how imperfect, how pathetic I am, and yet, I have no pity. I am an abject failure. People constantly tell me that I am amazing and talented, and theoretically, I should feel better and it should boost my self-concept. In truth I am an acerbic, hopeless, helpless, and ephemeral. In the past I would have my series of depression. But, now, it has all become limpid. My capricious emotions, futile cupidity, and paucity of all beneficial characteristics; all of these things are what make me, me. I can never accept who I am. Despite my efforts, my unyielding, futile, erroneous, onerous, and seemingly infinite efforts, have led me to some improvement. However, it is so infinitesimal, that I question whether it is worth it. I am killing myself over not even a whole additional point on my average. Granted, my life has little value, but, I question whether I should try so hard. School was the one thing that I thought I had some proclivity for. Boy, am I a fool. People who are plagued by the anathema of talentlessness as strongly as I am should know, even in the abysmal paucity of knowledge that they possess, that there is no panacea in existence for such an affliction. Hard work will get oneself nowhere. I hoped one day to be a paragon for academic excellence. Naïve, foolish, fatuous, and stolid, perhaps, and even if I were empowered with the most sanguine of natures, with what I have endured, repeated failures, each one more severe than the last, they would soon realize that it is desultory. I am trapped in an ephemeral loop that leaves me more and more damaged as each rotation of the vicious cycle continues. Frankly, it is not a cycle; cycles are mellifluous, and eventually all sensible individuals who experience a cycle would adapt and fail to feel anything after a certain point, but then, there’s me. Honestly, if you were to see a physical embodiment of by soul, it would probably be very pale, vapid, with scars, and pieces chipping off the sides, emanating erratic alternations of heat and absolute coldness.