Down to business.

I've been writing since the fifth grade, when a very pushy teacher forced us to sit down for an hour every few days and describe something that had happened to us in our lifetimes. Rough draft, final draft, that one draft I threw out because the handwriting was so bad; to a large group of eleven-year-olds, it felt like a punishment.

At school, I complained right alongside everyone else. At home, however, I would write just because I felt like it - about everything you can imagine. I had my story ideas set aside before she had even told us that it was time for a new one.

Nowadays, I've noticed that I haven't been writing as much as I usually would. I've lost nearly all of my work due to computer reboots and demolished papers, and I suppose I've lost a little bit of my morale right along with all of it. During my senior year of high school, I was a part of the school newspaper (recruited by the teacher), and I didn't exactly get my work in on time (or...practically ever). In fact, I'm fairly certain the editors hated me. The few things that I did do, though, I appreciated a lot. I'm certain I wasn't a terrible writer, merely a terrible worker. Don't tell my parents.

I've always began stories and never gotten anywhere with them. I'm not a planner, and I suppose that's a big part of my problem. I need to map out brainstorms and decide where I want to go with what I'm creating, but I either lack the patience or the attention span (probably both). I tend to just sit down and let a random thought flow into something larger, never going beyond a few pages.

Anyway, I'm not sure exactly where I'm heading (thought-wise) tonight. I'm just acting as my usual self - allowing things to flow, to end where they may. My thoughts aren't very controlled, are they? I'm certain I've gone in a million different directions here.

Maybe I haven't. A lot of times, I'll feel this way, but when I go back to re-read, it flows much better than I ever would have thought. Hopefully this is one of those situations. (End?)

Tad less insulting as a blog.

I've tried my very best to be a part of this world, only to be shown how worthless the things I've known are - especially my attempts at treading through, and its superficial promises. I don't want this, and I never actually needed any of you. Having any part in it only means living through a constant 97% disappointment. Then that rare 3% of time spent, to trick me into feeling like it may be worth the time, every time I'm ready to give up. A mockery, a way to prove that I'm really stupid enough to have believed that.

No more. I'm done with everyone that didn't take the time to prove I am worth the life I've been living. I deserve that much, of this I am (finally) completely sure.

I hope you have fun being yourselves.

Make something of the life you're living;

Or else the people who make it what it is for you are going to keep handing you the leftovers, the crap that everyone else left behind in the scramble.

More than likely a rant.

The trouble is, nowadays I'm not sure what form a happy ending comes in.

I spend all of my time with the one person who completely understands me, instead of stretched and tangled between a string of people who never actually cared. I know I'm happy.

I wanted to let myself out, to weave my way back in to the life I used to have, even a small amount. The one person I gave my few minutes to, the only time I was willing to share with someone who wasn't my life, and he tried to give me reasons for why everything I knew wasn't real. He tried to wipe away the surface of my life, make everything I've ever known completely disappear.

The problem is, I don't need to start over. I don't need that cleanliness, that feeling that everything is going to be new from here on out. I don't need that. I need my familiarity. I need the repetitiveness, the same things I see every day happening every day STILL.

I need that to feel real. I've never been so happy. I've never completely been myself, completely known myself. Not until now.

The problem is, there are so many strangers in this world. People who feel worthless, and therefore try to make you feel just as hopeless alongside them. People who don't know themselves, and therefore can't give anything away.

There's nothing to share if you have absolutely nothing. It makes sense. So they have to make something of themselves, whether good or bad, something to be remembered. Something to be loved, even if superficially. Even if in the wrong ways.

Those who have turned their bodies into photographs, some small way to keep their memories alive. Those who will go to any means to numb themselves. Those who will swallow anything you have to offer, only to try and make themselves feel real.

There are so many people that hurt, so many people that are so unsure of what life truly has to offer. There are so many people that feel alone. There are so many damn people in this world that live their lives from one situation to the next, trusting nothing and absolutely no one. Believing not one thing anyone has to say and for good reason. There are people who have nothing to call their own, and there are people who don't want the things they have because of how absolutely miserable these things make them.

I wish life were easier, more promising. I wish there were a guarantee that you were going to go out with something good, something that made it all worthwhile.

I wish I could say everyone died without ever having known the bad in this world. Or at least that no one ever ended life without having had one good thing to call their own.

I wish it were possible.

Inspirational.

One afternoon, I am complaining about the confusion of my age, what is expected of me versus what I want for myself.

"Have I told you about the tension of opposites?" he says.

The tension of opposites?

"Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn't. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted. A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle."

Sounds like a wrestling match, I say.

"A wrestling match." He laughs. "Yes, you could describe life that way."

So which side wins, I ask?

"Which side wins?"

He smiles at me, the crinkled eyes, the crooked teeth.

"Love wins. Love always wins."

- Tuesdays with Morrie.

You cannot leave the subject blank.

One of these days, I just want to wake up and realize that everything turned out terrifically in the end. That I made the right choices, went down the right paths, and ended up exactly where I always wanted to. It would be the greatest feeling in the world, knowing that I didn't go through all of the ups and downs without an outcome. Knowing that I went through pains to achieve something in the end. Knowing that everything was worth what it brought me.

Once I turn eighteen, the plan is to get out there and live on my own, even though my dad isn't exactly looking forward to it. I'll probably end up getting an apartment here in a few months, with a friend or two, as long as everything works out. Maybe with at least one of my [currently] two favorite homeless people (cough). You guys know who you are.

Anyway, things seem to be going great right now. To begin with, I'm in love with my group of friends, dude. There's barely drama, and everyone just seems to click together. I've never felt so at ease.

COS isn't anything like I expected big scary college to be. It's pretty laid-back, and the classes aren't as hard as I expected. Sure, sure, I'm still getting used to having to supply my own shit (scantrons, textbooks, and whatnot) but it's really a lot better than I believed it would be. Plus, being able to smoke on campus is a nice plus. The friends we've made has proved worthwhile, too.

Next comes Troy. Damn. I feel so completely comfortable with him that I don't even know what to do with myself. I've just always been so reserved with people. I've been afraid to share myself with them since things that occurred a few years back, and it's utterly simple to hide yourself away from others when you have something that's eating away at you. I don't know, it'd be hard for you to understand, I suppose.

Observation 1, 113, 113, 113.

People are strange.

They walk around, pretending to have everything they need: coffee, newspaper, breakfast bar with the pre-melted milk inside.

It's funny, though. You always see them scrambling, looking in pockets and purses...

Searching for the missing.

Heated discussions.

You've told me countless times, we're not going to fight over this.

But we can't just not discuss absolutely everything. Because I need to know how you feel. I need to hear that you're angry, to hear you say the things you mean out loud. I need to know more than silence, and your back getting smaller in the distance.

Because truthfully, words hurt so much less.