I stare at the broken pieces of my Walkman in my hand, the small wires running into the indents of my palms. It was one of the few things I found pleasure in, that gave my time some kind of purpose, and I didn’t know until it was gone and a piece of me left with it. This is what becomes of almost everything in my life, material or otherwise.

The things I want are simple, but I can never have them for very long. I cannot ultimately live up to the unspoken standards of those I love. Things I love are always destroyed. And yet, masochistic as I know it is, I keep thinking that this new thing will last and guarding every spark of happiness, hoping it will grow before it’s snuffed out.

There are 10 more weeks of school. This should matter to me, I know it should, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I’m a prisoner in my jail cell of a body, awaiting a verdict from some unknown court.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. All of the anger I’ve ever had has been sown by the outside world. I just want to write, and make music, and watch and listen to everything and everyone that I hold close to me. ♦