I can only write when I’m emotionally traumatized.

A sad song is stuck to my head and it’s almost midnight, which is not a good thing in the slightest. I can already tell I’ll not be able to sleep. I can feel hot tears tickling my eyelids. Just not enough to actually fall down in streams, but just enough to make my head heavy and my throat smothered. Under my blankets, I’m hiding. I have a mother who is going away soon, a father whom I can’t be too casual around, two married sisters who have left home and gone away and made new families, a teacher who is too good at inspiring I don’t even remember his advice as I am so busy wishing I was like him, wanting his confidence and his wittiness and his youthfullness and all of his knowledge. I have too many books I’d love to read but not enough time to do so. I have so many friends scattered around the globe, but none who are actually my real good friends. You know, the real good friend who would give you half their cookie even if they are hungry and only have one left. I miss one person so much it actually hurts to think of them. Talking to them only occures seldom, and God, do I hate to wait. Oh, and my dreams are so constantly impatiently demanding to come true they’re ruining my life.

It’s a weird world and I can’t help but feel vulnerable sometimes. The world is so big and I am so small, hiding under my blankets in my little room. Words boiling in my mind, feelings raw in my chest and ambitions piling up in The Corner of Shame where I rest my head. There’s so much stuff I could be doing but I’m so tired and so sleepy and so drained I just need a hug and someone who could just look me in the eye and assure me that everything will be okay.

Good night, world. I hope I will make my peace with you soon.

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