Teenagers point out the absurdities of life, while adults become encompassed in them

Today I destroyed the best painting I ever made, and in my agony, I realized I am a writer.

I'm sitting here, trying to figure out when my mind went blank and my life went full speed ahead. I have SATs, yes I said it, SATs to take this weekend, and I'm moving away over the summer.
I'm stumped over it all. When did I turn 17? When did I loose my free time? I don't have time to read or sew; to write or draw. I take what I can, and I usually end up grasping at an object in the darkness, just out of reach. But I know it's there, so I long for it, day in and day out.
The rare occasions when I find myself with free time, is when the trouble begins. Thoughts I push out of my mind, creep back, taunting me. Worry. Anger. Regret.

Memory is a bit like a pencil with a cheap eraser. You can try to erase your mistake until your arm is sore, but traces of graphite remain. Your mistake is still visible for others to see, or even if they aren't paying attention, you are.

They say life is short. I'm beginning to see why. It seems as if someone has pressed fast forward on my life.
Job. Eat. Homework. Sleep. School. Repeat.

Maybe humans live so long as a punishment. They have to get to a certain level of pain and regret before they can die. It sounds morbid, but I wouldn't be surprised.
I guess there are enough good points to keep us from going off the deep end. Laughter and falling in love.

Laugh till you fall on the floor.
Then you calm down.
And burst out laughing again.
By now you are doubled over and turning an impressive shade of red.

Or

You do something embarrassing but hilarious.
And you have to join in the laughter.
Laughing at the moment.
And the incurable stupidity that links us all.
Makes us human.

It's my job to love you when the world has turned it's back on you.

bits off the top of my head.

"Well, here I am. What do you want?"
"Everything."
"Seriously, cut the crap."
"Hahaha. Alright."

I sat on the subway. My head bumped against the window with each turn. I was in no mood to move it. One of those situations where you are too fed up with life. I guess the science-y people call it inertia. I guess.
The setting wasn't helping. Some hotshot decided to scratch something crude into the wall. The fantastic chairs that were molded to fit no one's butt were causing me to shift constantly. And the window was covered in years of grime.
So I'm pissed, fitting into society's view of a typical outcast. I'm in Fuck Everything mode. Nothing I do or anyone I talk to I like. It came so suddenly to. I was sitting in English class, tempted to slam down my books and barge out the door. Fuming at nothing.

Well, I'm staring at this one guy in particular. It seemed as if life beaten the crap out of him and spat on him afterwards. Yet he had this smile on his face, like he knew the world's greatest joke or something. So I figure, ah what the hell, I may as well talk to the guy. Lord knows I could use a good laugh. So I call him over.

"Hey.. Hey you. The one with the black jacket."
He looks over.
"Come here a sec."
I can sense his caution. I'm not the world's most approachable person. I had fun with piercings, and eyeliner. So I'm dark. Is that a problem?
"I don't mean to be rude, but you seem like you've been.. I dunno.. abused by life. Yet, you've got this look like you've found meaning in the small stuff. So I figured I'd ask what was up."
"Hi, for starters. Yea. I guess I gave up on my appearence. I'm not about to launch into the sorrows of my life, you haven't committed any crime worthy of such a punishment?"
"I hope not. Care for a seat? Where ya headed?"
"Until I decide to get off, or if they kick me off"
"Me too! I just need my head to clear. Things have been odd for me lately."
"Well, I sparked your interest with how I look. I'm doing the bohemian thing at the moment. Living poor and living free."
He chuckled to himself at that point and it was then I investigated him a bit closer.
His shoes showed a great view of his socks, which showed a great view of his toe poking through the hole, and it was all done up with duct tape. Everything was ripped or tattered. He was gaunt, exhausted...
"So how are you free? I didn't think poverty meant freedom. at least that's that way I've seen it all these years."
"Sleep alludes me, hungry invades me. Yes, it would appear I have every oppurtunity to be miserable. I learned wealth causes more harm than good, so I'm trying to live the side of life people generalize but don't experience. Like they say, freedom is just another word for nothing left to loose. When you loose it all you get to focus on the important stuff."
"Philosophical. I like it. I'm Sam by the way."
"I'm Eli. Pleasure to meet cha"

right, I might continue with it but I needed a break point.

I can't write. I can't eat. I can't think.
Oh my god this is awful and there seems to be no end in sight.

"why doesn't santa have any kids?"
"They threw his balls on the tree!"

you know how you think it will never happen to you?

well, it happens to me a lot. want it?

"I'm sitting here in the boring room.
It's just another rainy Sunday afternoon..."
The music crackled through the radio. I sat in the waiting room, under the glare of flourescent lights. The walls were that wood paneling and the carpet bore the marks of several stains. There was a fake plant keeping the magazines company.
I hate doctors. I always have. They tell you you are fine when you know full well there is something wrong. Then they prescribe you some unheard of medication and send you on your way. It always happens, at least it always happens to me.

And that's just what happened again, except with a psychiatrist. I feel so freakishly mental at the point. Seems a bit contradictory, a mental health specialist making you feel mental.

I step back outside into a town God himself seems to have forgotten. This town, desolate and obscure, is a blemish on the face of the Earth. I lack the courage to go abroad.

It's late October and the dying leaves are shivering in the wet cold. The weather continues to annoy our small population with its bi-polar behaviour. I'm in a sweater and scarf and chilly, yesterday, the high was 62 degrees!

Getting into my car, which acts older than me, I ponder whether of not to even drop off this prescription. He told me to call him in two weeks with a followup, so I may as well, but medication is so damned expensive.

Her glasses sat on the desk, a habit she had picked up from the drummer who occupied her thoughts too often. Not that she minded.

Isn't it odd what you are willing to do to get a person to like you, then you spend all of your waking moments wondering if they return your feelings?
It seems so corny and unnatural when you think it over. You usually present yourself as composed, whether or not you are is your own decision to disclose.
What corrupts the balance? What sparks those gushy thoughts that embarrass you when you think about them, about how silly they are.

You know it won't last but you don't care. Is this universal?
Then again, you aren't thinking about the universe. You are thinking about yourself and the variable, the X to your real life equation.

You don't even mind the self-conscious effort of changing to form what they want you to be, or at least what they think they want you to be. You don't even seem equate the fact that they like you for who you are. Unless they only see the mask you put on yourself and like that instead.

And then you worry again. You wonder if it is all in vain, then when you are around them those thoughts fade into assurance. And then the cycle continues.

Love. The one thing we all need to thrive, yet all of us are not supplied with it from the start. The things we take for granted, such as laughter and family. I know I seem dark, and to be honest I am dark. In the end, I did gain my identity.
But what I want, what I truly want...Is someone to be there for me. Someone to tell me that my thoughts are irrational and to tease me till I know they care.
I want someone to realize my incessant babbling is my protection against lingering silence. Silence leaves time for thoughts to grow and morph into something grotesque. It's terrifying.
I don't have siblings and my parents are never around. my mother is a lazy bum and my dad carries the weight of the world on his thickened shoulders. Me, I sit there in the silence.
What if I did have someone to talk to? What if they cared? Would they notice all the imperfections I associate with myself? Or would they help me realize that there is a side to the world not run by greed and hypocrites? A place where you are not forever impacted by your surroundings. I doubt there is such a place, but I wouldn't mind looking for it.
What I'm saying is, well... I'm not entirely sure. I can't hide from reality, trust me I've tried.
What I want is a shield. Something, rather someone, to numb me from all of the horrible things in my life. I want a comfort zone and I envy those who have it. They talk freely of love and warmth, yet speak only of dysfunction when their family is the topic.
It is bizarre to me that you can feel alone is a room full of people. But that is another story, one of human frailty and paranoia. I do wish my thoughts ran in unison, but their disjointed manner leaves a gap that makes me long for the closure I deserve. Or, simply, for someone to fill the silence.

He looked up from his desk, startled by the sound of a tap on the glass window that sat before him. Cautiously, he rose and opened the door.

"Hello?"
"Hi. I'm looking for William Halloway."
"I'm Will, how can I help you?"
"I'm your sister."

why is it that when you ask a question, people find the need to point out its faults instead of being helpful?

Sorry I haven't written in awhile.
Things have been.... Intense. A part of me still hopes we will find Mike... alive and well. It's been eight months now and everyone but me has given up hope. I know he is out there somewhere. I have no proof but something just tells me he is okay.
I loved him. I still do love him. There is an ache and an emptiness that can only be filled by him.
I know I sound crazy, but it's all I have. When you've lost nearly everything, hope is all you have.
Sometimes I think of what life would be like if he were still here. That day... the fire. It would have been so much less painful had he been there to hold me and tell me it was all going to be okay.
I don 't know what to think anymore. The police closed the case. They said he was dead and that was that. Nobody was ever discovered, and that is one of the few things that seems to keep me going.
God I miss him. I miss his laugh, his smile. I miss the way you feel like you are the center of the word when you are around him.
That all changed when he got addicted. I wish he had never tried it the first time. Then again, not all of us are strong enough to fight peer pressure. I thought he could....
In any case, I'm grudgingly getting along without him. I would give anything to get him back though.
God, I'm, rambling. I'd best sign off then.
Love,

Anna