It’s 11:11 pm, a cold Friday night, I am in bed, wrapped in layers upon layers of clothes and blankets, my throat feels itchy and I can’t cough because it would wake up my mum and she would not be happy about it. I miss one person and I hate many things. I have exams to study for but I also just don’t really necessarily feel like it. I’m torn between good and bad, truth and illusion, questions and answers, reality and fiction, myself and the world. Oh, and I wish I could become a writer, but that’s besides the point. It’s always besides the point.
I am now 18 and I can’t quite believe the fact. My mind is just as mushy and weird and as a 5-year-old boy’s is. Not responsible and not wise and not liberated nor kind. But selfish and moody and grumpy and whiny and needy and nerdy and afraid of the dark and the monsters hiding in my wardrobe. I crave affection and words of love and praise, but none I get no matter how long the wait. I live in silence and read books to go places and feel things. My breathing is not steady and my heart is full to bursting, my mind is bombarded with every thought and dream I’ve ever had and my hands are limp and pale and freezing. I’m scared of thunders and lightning and loneliness, and of one day growing old and not having achieved all of my dreams. My eyes feel tired and dry and heavy to lift as sleep creeps upon them and weighs them down so much my eyelids feel like magnets.
I guess I’m just another human being on earth. Not more nor less. Just another somebody with the same typical fear of human oblivion.
I don’t want to die without leaving my mark on the world.