I'm just a kid.

I WANT YOU TO GIVE ME

EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

 AT THE SAME TIME.



BECAUSE TO BE PERFECTLY HONEST,

I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT ANYMORE.

I wake up every morning. 
I go to sleep every night. 
And in the time between, I ask questions,  but don't get any answers. 
I worry, but I don't know why. 
I have a nevous pit in my stomach, and it's always there. 
I lie, to other people, and to myself. 
I live in a realm of routine and redundancy. 
But mostly, in the time between waking and sleeping, I wait.  I wait to see changes.
  In myself, in other people, in the relationships that I have, or once had.
Unsurprisingly, the world has yet to deliver.  
But I think I'm getting close, as I hide behind a wall of pessimism and flippancy. 
I've begun to let apathy do its damage, as I watch from the sidelines, laughing cynically as I slowly, subtly, burn.

It's gotten so that I don't really feel my own emotions anymore. 
I just kind of let them sit in a corner, where they can't touch me, or haunt me. 
I don't even know what or how I'm feeling, until some one else tells me. 
And then I'll close my eyes, think for a second, and say to myself, "Oh.  That's it then",
and I block whatever emotion away even further, so that not only will I be unable to decipher any of my feelings, but neither will anybody else. 
That's not normal. 
Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong. 
But nothing's wrong. 
I'd be the first to say that I have an incredible life, no matter the bumps in the road. 
Then why am I not normal? 
I have no reason to be unhappy, but here I am, torturing myself. 
Waiting forever, and for what? 
Something that will never come.  Nothing.  To be happy and to be normal.
  To be able to feel until I either deflate and dissolve into depression, or explode with joy, and to be proud for once.
  I want to feel something more than an inkling. 
Something more than resentment, and jealousy, and anger, and bitterness. 
I don't want to be told how I feel, or who I am.
  But I'm so afraid to tell myself . 
I'm afraid to quit waiting, and to actually be a part of something. 
I'm afraid to watch anything other than myself fail. 
I'm not afraid to tell myself that I am a failure.  I'm afraid to tell myself that I may be a success.
And so I sit, and I write, in the numb, pathetic box that I hide inside, and I begin to wonder if a person ever knows who they are. 
If they could ever, at the end of their life, sum up their entire being in one single thing. 
One of their happiest moments, some life-changing event, their proudest action. 
Something to identify the uniqueness of each and every person by, other than some superficial chemical makeup or some swirly fingerprint, something that we could all remember, and care about. 
I wonder what the people I know best's would be.  And I have no clue.  None.  At all. 
And then I think of myself, what my "summary" would be. 
The moment that represents my entirety.
And, as of now, I can only think of every word I've ever written on any page I've ever touched, because that, words, ink, the smears my right hand makes when I write too fast, that's who I am. 

For now, this is me. 

But at the final stretch, when I've really lived my life,
(because I can only hope I haven't even begun yet)
I would like my real moment to be whenever I'm done waiting, for whatever the hell I'm waiting for. 

I see no proof there is anything else.
I keep my obituary current,
but believe that good times are right around the corner

Una grande scultura posse rotolare giù per una collina senza rompersi,
Michelangelo is believed to have said (though he never did):
To determine the essential parts of a sculpture, roll it down a hill.
The inessential parts will break off.

That hill,
graveyard of the inessential,
is discovered by the hopeless and mistaken for the world
just before they mistake themselves for David's white arms.

They are wrong. But to assume oneself essential is also wrong: a conundrum.

To be neither essential nor inessential—
not to exist except as the object of someone's belief,
like those good times lying right around the corner—is the only possibility.

Nothing, nobody matters.

And yet the world is full of love . . .