Thoughts
Disappearing
I know I just posted but I really need to get this off my chest before I get in my pajamas. I love Joseph, I really do. However, I don’t want him to know when I feel bad, especially about something from the past. I don’t want him to worry or anything but I sometimes really need someone to talk to. I need comfort, but I don’t want to bother. Him. Jill. Anybody. I feel alone with a knot in my throat and an abyss as a stomach with sudden flames of Hell that shoot up. I want to cry but tears don’t fall. I want to scream but my voice is not strong. I want to just sink into my futon and lay there for all eternity. It would be cool to wake up and find myself dead, not just an out of body experience.
I hope I don’t do anything stupid. I have learned that most writers have weird lives. I met someone a few years ago during summer school physical education. He was tall and scrawny, had shaggy hair and tan skin. He told me he was Samoan, and between us he is the only one I’ve ever spoken to. He was pretty cool. pretty calm and chill. Quiet guy. He had the slowest yet cool walk I have ever seen, as if striding across the pavement. We were sitting behind some trailers one afternoon and I was trying to ignore him because I was sitting in-between his group and mine, being an outcast. He turned to me and said “Since you want to be a writer, I’ve got a great idea you could write about.” I have never heard such words, they were heaven. “You know how back then people had black and white TVs and would dream in black and white? Now that there is color TV, people dream in colors. You could make up a story about that.” It was a brilliant idea, though I don’t know how I would ever write a story like that without giving him credit. I don’t even know his last name, I just know it starts with a weird letter. Y or U. He even asked why I wanted to be a writer. “I thought writers were supposed to be people with crazy lives, you know. Like with a wack childhood or something,” he said. In a way, he opened my eyes to that as well. My life may seem normal on the outside but it really isn’t.
I was late because the car broke down half way when going to school. I had realized I had forgotten my math book, so my day was off at a bad start yet different. Yesterday I was bummed due to the fact that everything is the same. Everyday with the same routine as things flow mechanically like they should—with nothing new or with anything meaningful to look forward to. Today was different…bad, but different.
It was sad watching animals get killed by other animals in a video at school. Everytime I’m in that class, I want to write. I have all these sorts of crazy ideas about nature and my observations. I want to write it all but it is impossible when I have to pay attention to the course and all.
The day was going and flowing like an endless sea of waves. I could almost picture myself out of my body, and how I was dragging my feet with a straight back. Kids were sent to get their picture taken, and I questioned in general “What if we don’t want to go?” My influence of rebellion caught the attention of others in the classroom that everyone who was called to take it didn’t. Only two of them did. But, that’s their twenty-five bucks down the drain. I personally hate everyone in the school even though almost everyone didn’t do anything to me. I guess its just that I’m tired of having to have seen their faces for so long. Some since elementary, some since middle school, others throughout high school. I’m only glad this is the last year I have to put up with it until I can go out on my own, into the wild. I told Galsy that I wanted to do something like the guy from Into The Wild. He’s an inspiration of freedom and rebellion to detach himself from society in order to live off of nature. I’d like to do that if I don’t make it to college or, if I do, when I’m out of college.
I hope I don’t do anything stupid. I have learned that most writers have weird lives. I met someone a few years ago during summer school physical education. He was tall and scrawny, had shaggy hair and tan skin. He told me he was Samoan, and between us he is the only one I’ve ever spoken to. He was pretty cool. pretty calm and chill. Quiet guy. He had the slowest yet cool walk I have ever seen, as if striding across the pavement. We were sitting behind some trailers one afternoon and I was trying to ignore him because I was sitting in-between his group and mine, being an outcast. He turned to me and said “Since you want to be a writer, I’ve got a great idea you could write about.” I have never heard such words, they were heaven. “You know how back then people had black and white TVs and would dream in black and white? Now that there is color TV, people dream in colors. You could make up a story about that.” It was a brilliant idea, though I don’t know how I would ever write a story like that without giving him credit. I don’t even know his last name, I just know it starts with a weird letter. Y or U. He even asked why I wanted to be a writer. “I thought writers were supposed to be people with crazy lives, you know. Like with a wack childhood or something,” he said. In a way, he opened my eyes to that as well. My life may seem normal on the outside but it really isn’t.
I was late because the car broke down half way when going to school. I had realized I had forgotten my math book, so my day was off at a bad start yet different. Yesterday I was bummed due to the fact that everything is the same. Everyday with the same routine as things flow mechanically like they should—with nothing new or with anything meaningful to look forward to. Today was different…bad, but different.
It was sad watching animals get killed by other animals in a video at school. Everytime I’m in that class, I want to write. I have all these sorts of crazy ideas about nature and my observations. I want to write it all but it is impossible when I have to pay attention to the course and all.
The day was going and flowing like an endless sea of waves. I could almost picture myself out of my body, and how I was dragging my feet with a straight back. Kids were sent to get their picture taken, and I questioned in general “What if we don’t want to go?” My influence of rebellion caught the attention of others in the classroom that everyone who was called to take it didn’t. Only two of them did. But, that’s their twenty-five bucks down the drain. I personally hate everyone in the school even though almost everyone didn’t do anything to me. I guess its just that I’m tired of having to have seen their faces for so long. Some since elementary, some since middle school, others throughout high school. I’m only glad this is the last year I have to put up with it until I can go out on my own, into the wild. I told Galsy that I wanted to do something like the guy from Into The Wild. He’s an inspiration of freedom and rebellion to detach himself from society in order to live off of nature. I’d like to do that if I don’t make it to college or, if I do, when I’m out of college.