My room is so hot. So stuffy. I feel like there are three other people in here, all reusing the same air. However, it’s just me, alone. Sitting. My lap top open in front of me. A blank page with the little mousey thing blinking annoyingly at me.
Today was the day that it happened. Well, not today, but this day 6 years ago. This day, 6 years ago, my brother died. My younger brother, his name would have been Josh. But I never knew him; no one did, so I am not that sad. Or at least sad isn’t the word. Maybe I am just depressed that I didn’t know him, before he died. That he was born without knowing what the world was. But depressed sounds too deep, to thick and whole. I just don’t understand how I feel, but I know that I do feel something. Something that I don’t normally feel.


What has my life become? A series of almost boyfriends, almost dates, almost loves, an almost kiss? What of all those moments where I should have grasped it, embraced it, became it? And how many times have I forced a moment, stole it, grabbed it, clung to it? When it really never was there in the first place.
I tell myself I am not like other teens. That I care more than they do, think more than they do, laugh, smile, cry and yes even feel, more than most.
Have I just been fooling myself this whole time? What if I am just holding a mask to my own face, and not only convincing everyone else, but also myself, that I really do play that role? Have I affected the pretend escapade so well, that even I believe I am above the need of being saved?
Songs tell us we are perfect, beautiful, and worth it. But who says we are? What makes us so much better than the rest, our eyes, our hair, and our bodies? Those don’t even last; those get shoved six feet under. Buried by the Earth that we abuse, accuse, and use. And then what? It starts over? Another life is born perfect, to only be soiled by the souls that already cover the dying planet? How long is it supposed to go on, how long are we suppose to endure the unthinkable, unbearable that we force upon ourselves?
How many people are out there like me? Sitting alone, feeling alone, and hungry for the truth. Do I really understand what love is? Have I given my life, waited for years, or been dependent on one person? Why should I claim to love a boy I have talked to for a few days, much less a few years? Love is a bound, a feeling, a foundation you can hold and touch. Someone who can relate, and understand you. Someone who doesn’t question your motives, or your faults.
I stare at the key board, barely being able to see from the dim litted glow of the computer. I close my eyes, and long to embrace sleep. But something is tugging at me, I need to say something. Not to anyone close, or far away, or within my reach. But to myself. I need to remember myself in my purest form. Not when I am good, or bad. Angry, happy, sad, annoyed, or calm. But honest. Pure intentions. My heart spilled open before me like an open book. The mask being slowly lowered, as I look into the eyes of myself.
Eyes are the windows to the soul. What if you look at your own eyes, and only see a broken window? Disconnected. Dirty. Shadowed. What if you don’t recognize what you see, and you’re a stranger in your own eyes? To be a stranger to your own body, to feel as if you don’t belong. To belong is to be linked to something or someone, if you don’t feel comfortable in your own shoes, what is keeping you here really?

The green glow of the alarm clock is the only other light. I can hear the crickets outside my window, and the soft cool breeze from the fan I set up. Its quiet hum is comforting, but my eyes are growing heavy. However, my mind is far from being close to tired. Its wheels are turning and moving, and I know I will have some crazy dreams tonight.
Have you ever thought about how maybe your whole life has just been one big dream? What if when you were five, you started a dream that continued and continued and one day you will wake up confused and probably scared?
I feel tiny and small, igsanifican and nothing. So many people on the planet, and how many of them know my name? A few hundred at best. Out of billions and billions? I am nothing but a girl in a small town with dreams like everyone else out there. I am nothing special, or particular. I am not that beautiful, or smart or talented. Nor am I ugly, or dumb, or boring. I am just me. Here and there, but not everywhere. I am known, but not for what I do, but just for being me. I am not diviner or great speaker, an artist of any sort, and I certainly don’t have any musical talent to speak of.

So what makes me, me? And what makes them, them, and you, you? Is there something special hidden within all of us? And do we ever actually discover what makes us tick, or do we just die wondering? Or is there anything at all? Are we all just a bunch of random people, put in random places, and we go about life with no real meaning?

I stifle a yawn and stretch my arms. An hour has gone by. I try not to look at the time. Sitting at the computer makes me feel cramped and hot. I so badly want to sleep, but I know I will lie awake for a long time, my fingers itching to be typing. But my mind is losing its freshness, and my heart is putting back up the walls that were let down for my eyes to see what’s inside.
What is above all this? Who is specifically set aside to do some job, to have a purpose in life? Do we create it ourselves, or is there a bigger plan at work? Something far greater and wider then our tiny human brains. And who is deemed worthy to answer such a question as that, and who made them worthy?

As I shut off the lap top, and roll into a ball I can feel my heart beating in my chest. With each beat blood is pumped into my body, just as every other heart on the planet. But I am beginning to realize that every heart has its secrets, has its own scars and wounds, its own special beauty. Something to hide, and something to reveal. A true love that matches its own and a time to end and begin. And with every thump thump of a muscle I can’t control, my soul stirs inside my body. Twisting and turning, wrapping itself around my mind. Trying to control the thoughts and feelings that will come on their own time and plan. I sigh, but I am not content. Not yet. A feeling of restless has taken over, wanting to consume and keep me awake. But it will have to wait for now. I can feel the sleep taking over, putting my mind in a dull haze. But my soul doesn’t sleep, oh no. It continues to grow and search, never stopping. Wondering what is its purpose in a dead world walking, and if there really is a purpose if it will ever be discovered.
Perhaps it is best to remain hidden, and our brains couldn’t contain or understand the answer. As the stars watch me from above, I, lying awake in my bed, remain below blissfully unaware.

Of what’s above all this.