Here I sit, listening to the angry beat of Eminem. A perfect example of inspiration turned to hatred. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference; one can be just as beautiful as the other. The thin line between hatred and inspiration; between dreams and fear. Between a madman and a genius. We all stand on that line one time or another. The unimaginable question is what we will choose. No, it isn't as simple as 'taking the narrow path'. Experiences will make the choice for us, unless we have the strength to stand up and say "this is my life."

I wish I could just write down what I feel. To display the confusing feelings of a teenager would be difficult in itself. Many tell me I’m no different: that I make too big of a deal out of everything. But I know I’m different, although I wish that I weren't. To be a nameless face in the crowd would be heaven compared to the thoughts I face each day. These thoughts use to set me into a hysterical fear. Sometimes I didn't know where the fear came from, but after seven years of waking up drenched in sweat, the kind of fear a normal kid would run from, I stare wordlessly in the face. I ignore it, because that is the only thing that works in my world. And because of this, I can't remember four years of my life. I don't know the person I was, or what that person did. One day, I suddenly woke up; back where I started the only difference being I had an amount of knowledge no twelve year old should have, with no evidence of the source. And to make up for the hole I feel, I have lied to everyone I know. Made up stories composed of what memories I do have, the memories themselves were focused on very small details making it hard to concentrate on the big picture. My brothers and sisters were there with me the whole time, most of them don't remember anything either. The only one who does went off and became a drug addict. He refused to talk about it, and seemed distant most of the time. When I finally got him to talk, and asked him what happened, he would only tell me that my mind is blocking it. And that I can't take the block down until I can handle the truth. Every day, I face a crowd of people that I don't care about. People I call my friends, yet I wouldn't blink an eye if one day they disappeared. I only care for my family. By my family I mean my 13 brothers and sisters: my parents are strangers. I guess whatever happened during those four years has taught me not to trust anyone with love, because people take it for granted, and then burn it out of boredom.

That mental block is the thin line. I can take it down any time, but I’m not ready yet. The difference between me and Eminem... I know its coming. And I’ll be ready when it does.