The phrase I don’t know get burnt out a lot. Its written on the scattered pages of my journal, it’s spoken in place of the poorly perceived silence. It’s branded on every lobe of my brain. I don’t know anything. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I want to be. I sure as hell don’t know what anyone else wants me to be. I don’t know where I am going or if I’ll ever get there. I wonder if this constantly threatening and suffocating feeling of uncertainty will ever go away. The movies I see, the characters being thrown around in the world, falling in love, finding faith, finding meaning in the spans’ of an hour, show me that it’s just my age and my transition to adulthood. I’m supposed to be confused, right? But in the real world, where a minute feels like an entire tiring life and a year feels like a bad night’s sleep, they tell me I have it easy. They say this is the time of my life. If that is the case, I pray the time of my life is stunted by a timely and fantastic end.

Even my writing is scattered and confused, disguising itself as eloquent and articulate. There is nothing majestic about it, just well-mannered circles on the constant streams of my deafening thoughts. If, that is, they are even transferred from fleeting to permanent. Most the time they aren’t anymore. I perfected the craft of not giving a s***. But even that is a lie. I’ve really only perfected the craft of appearing like I don’t care, and in reality I am being eaten by a sulfuric acid from my insides out. I couldn’t care a less if it devoured me in one bite. But until it does, it must only gorge itself on my insides. Keep it in, keep it in. On some days, when my barrier is weak from all the ravenous monsters, I mustn’t give them an outlet. A thought in their direction, let alone transporting to the unprotected outside world by pen, would be unmanageable. That’s all it ever is. Only a thought or word, but never ever spoken. Not like I would have anyone to tell them to anyways. No one would listen to the exaggerated drone of an unstable teenager, nor should they. The few who would let me ramble on, while they busied themselves with their own troubles, I wouldn’t want to tell. But even then, I don’t know what it is I would have to tell, I suppose.
I suppose. I don’t know. I don’t care. I care entirely too much.