When I have nowhere to go I write. Sometimes the everyday stresses of life become too much and I need to escape. I would like to run away or go where no one can touch me, but I can’t. This is my home.

What is home? Some say it’s where you can be yourself and not care what people think. Some may say it’s where you go to escape. If that’s true then I don’t know where my home is. Cause it sure as hell isn’t where I am living.

My life isn’t horrible, in fact I really shouldn’t complain. I have a mother and a father and people who I know care about me. But when you feel completely alone in the place where you should feel the most comfortable. Then that’s a problem.

I hope I can someday find a home. I will have the life I always wanted. I will be myself, not who others want me to be. And I will have no expectations to live up to. I dream of a life like this but right now it seems pretty far away. So until then I will write.

I will write about my hopes and dreams, I will write about my life and the pain it brings, I will write about how I’m not good enough. I’ll write about fairytales and good lives with happy endings and secretly wish I was in them. Cause for now that’s all I can do. That’s the only thing that keeps me here, that keeps me grounded. Without it I would be lost.

When I write though I take myself to a whole other world. Somewhere far away where good grades, sports and being on top doesn’t matter. I roam the world without a care, independent with nothing and no one stopping me.

But this place isn’t real. This right now, right here is real. I snap back to reality and continue studying, continue living but not. I’m surviving. Getting through each day, waiting, dreaming, hoping that someday this will change.