Searching for the truth. All I feel is this unquenchable desire to create something beautiful. I don’t care if it’s a poem, a song, a painting, I just want to create something that expresses all of this life that I’m living. But everything has been said before, has been written before, has been thought of before. And I sit here trying in vain to create, create, create from my soul, but all I can think is what will people think? Is this good enough? Is this original? I feel like an amalgamation of all the experiences, people and places I’ve come across. Like if you stripped away everything that’s ever happened to me, there would be nothing left. Do I have a soul? Where is this stream of consciousness coming from? I don’t know. And I try to be okay with not knowing, but I don’t know if I am. I don't even know if I'm okay with not knowing if I can not know.

So in the meantime, I surf the web, look at beautiful works of art, and listen to music from decades long ago.  And I think that I’m changing, that I’m developing a clearer picture of who I am and who I want to be, but then I feel just as stuck as I did four years ago. Is this growing up? Because while I do hate the ignorance, the exclusiveness, the pettiness, I need the opportunities. I like to say I could live on my own, but I’m not ready for the jadedness, the financial problems, the 2.5 kids. I hate the restrictions, the normalcy, the surges of emotion, but I need the safety net. I like to act like I’m so wise about the world and the universe and everything, but the only thing I know is that I’m just as lost as everyone else. I’m so far from knowing the answers, I don’t even know the questions.

Or maybe I know the answers, I just don’t know how to implement them. Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe, as much I hate shoes and love being late, I’m a creature of habit as much as everyone else.  Maybe I know that I should be myself and not care what others say, spend my life helping others, that money isn't worth much in the end, that clichés of peace, love and happiness are what I really yearn for. Maybe everything they tell me is wrong. It all contradicts itself, really.
Be who you are.
             but adapt to your surroundings.
Listen to your parents.
                           but search for freedom.
Learn to be assertive.
                                          focus on serving others.
Fight for what you believe.
                                                 but strive for peace.
Fit in.
    Be  d i  f   f   e     r      e       n        t.
Cherish each moment.
                                                                but make responsible decisions.
Love everyone.
                                                                                but separate yourself from negative people
they say
so many "they"s
how many "us"

To the point where I simultaneously want to scream
And be ashamed of myself for fitting into a stereotype of the rebellious teenager, good girl gone bad, thinks she could change the world one day, gets herself depressed over problems that can’t compare to those everyone else is facing, but that’s part of why she’s depressed in the first place.

So I guess it’s all about balance. Finding the right combination of the spiritual and the physical, the senses and the thought, the good times and the bad, the acceptance and the growth, the they and the us, the serenity and the passion, the connection and the rebellion, the creativity and the burning of the old rusty fences that are holding you back.

I've never done this before.
Always judged those pathetic kids who thought pain would disappear the pain they felt inside.
But you can never walk through the same river twice.
Because everything's changed.

Now I'm staring at my face in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror
x acto blade in hand.

where

where

where

I've never done this before.

my thumb?
the finger that the others would be useless without
I could say it was from cutting tomatoes.
no.


my knee?
already scarred from kneeling on the ground
and those hideous warts I've been trying to get rid of.

my wrist?
no way.
            too noticeable.
                          too cliche.

ankle.
I hesitate.
I touch the x acto to my skin.
I press deeper.
nothings happening.
I slice down gently.
still nothing.

I've never done this before.

Finally, a little stream of blood appears along the fault line.
It doesn't really hurt.
It itches actually. I smile, which is really ironic considering my situation.
I was worried I wouldn't feel any better afterwards.
But strangely, I do.

I've never done this before.
I worry I'll do it again.

little droplets of sweat
d
  r
    i
     p
      p
       i
        n
         g
out her pores

milliliter
                       by
                                        milliliter

wishing the words could drip out of her that way
phrase
             by
                    phrase
but instead she runs
runs away from the crashing waves
the pressure of the earth's layers
trying to squish her into a metamorphic rock

she r   u        n              s
to make the sweat, form the muscles, feel the pain
when she can't make anything else
and can't feel everything else

she
r   u       n            s
because the doctors say it will make her happy

and the truth is
millions of milliliters later
it does.

I fear the silence
Of courage falling away
Of music fading
And having nothing at all to say
Of feeling empty
Like the silence has found a loophole into your head
And even though you try to tie it closed
It just keeps ripping
And ripping
Extinguishing the small spark of creativity you keep inside
And then it ends
A distinct voice in the darkness breaks through
And you call back
I see you ,
I hear you,
You say.

She was always the "good" girl
who made "good" decisions
and "good" grades
and had "good" friends
and was "good" at almost everything.

But one day
"good" just wasn't good enough.
She wanted to be anything but good.
She wanted to be bad and rebellious
and excellent and brilliant
All at once.

She wanted to make the mistakes that teenagers who weren't "good" people made
Break free from the walls of boredom and mediocrity that constrained her life
Even if she knew she'd probably come back down.

She wanted to stop being "good" at lots of things and actually be great at something for once.
She wanted to be able to see the good in herself and others, and do good for the world instead of just being "good" in her own little bubble.

She wanted to feel like she was living
Even if that meant falling
And to feel like she was free
Even if that meant letting go.

Why do they call them evenings?
Nothing is becoming even
We pretend that everything is taken care of
but the loose ends persist
The worries keep nagging us
and time speeds up

To me, the day is lengthening
Growing darker
Growing wearier

and while I'd like to feel
every night
that all is well
and everything is even and good
it's not even okay.
someone still dies every eleven seconds.
that's not an even number.

So I don't want to give up on the day.
Don't want to lie down and let sleep fall over me.
But I know that in the morning I will regret those long evenings.
Those lengthenings, those endings

So I lie down.
and sink into the pillows
sink into darkness
into peace
into even.

Zero. Small baby, big brown eyes
One. Not quite as small, devouring food and the wonderful sights of the world
Two. Wobbling around, climbing as high as I can
Three. Playing on the playground, running blissfully as fast as I possibly can
Four. Little ballerina, twirling nervously in my golden tutu
Five. Walking into school with my backpack and bob haircut
Six. Realizing that I'm different from the other kids, everything just clicks for me as they stumble with reading and addition
Seven. Switching schools, not talking to anyone
Eight. Learning a lot, filled with guilt at the smallest breach of rules.
Nine. Missing my best friend, wishing I was somewhere else
Ten. Laughing, learning, loving with friends and the best teacher in the world
Eleven. Middle school, wearing the same graphic tees and skinny jeans as every other person
Twelve. Stuck in limbo
Thirteen. Growing ready for a fresh start
Fourteen. Fresh start doesn't live up to my expectations, but I'm surviving
Fifteen. Falling into depression, growing fed up with the lies and hate of the world, learning what to care about and what not to
Sixteen. Not setting expectations for this one.