i wrote this awhile ago, but forgot about it. i had planned on turning it into a long, drawn-out, meandering story written in the 2nd person, but after looking at it again, i've decided that it ends somewhat nicely, i think, so i'll just leave it how it is. i wasn't in the highest of spirits when i wrote it, so forgive the more than obviously prevalent self-reproach and whatnot. surprisingly, it has capitalization because i typed it in word. and not so surprisingly, it fails at being anything impressive or memorable, but you can't really expect too much from a nineteen year old boy living in his parents' basement. In the late darkness of the night, you realize that your absolutely enveloping, yet entirely trivial thoughts of your head can and will never be expressed nor interpreted how you wish them to be. The world in which you live, the people that you meet, and the ones that fall close, all exist behind and within some type of confine, or maybe some kind of moat--you‘re not exactly sure. What this wall is, where it sprouted from, and why it’s here inside us are all unknown to you. It occurs to you that life in itself has been growing and inflating to an immeasurable level of confusion. All the daydreams that you dwell on throughout the day, during your work and during your meals, are just preoccupations serving to deceive yourself into believing in their faint expectancy, and they aid yourself into continuing on through the trek. Being so small and trying to climb something so large, you wonder if you‘re capable of such a feat, or moreover, if it’s even possible for you. Because of this and because of that, you imagine yourself in a few years and you find yourself not discovering and enjoying, but settling. When you think of the past days you lived in, you worry that if this was done differently, or if that wasn’t said the same, or maybe if that choice wasn’t the one chosen, then this state wouldn’t be where you are at this time. It worries you that you may have drastically crumbled your life into something unmanageable, and all that you can do is try and salvage these meager remains, just hoping to make the best of a decaying antique. Then, thinking harder, it occurs to you that you did make the wrong decisions, you know it with an absolute and complete certainty that you weren‘t in the right, and the disappointment this realization invokes in you is unlike any emotion that has ever yet passed through you. Maybe, you think, by some magical and mystical force, or by some miraculous act of a god making a fashionably late entrance to the show, maybe just this once, being the lucky, deserving, and silly creature that you are, that this incalculable hunger will be filled, so you make an inane little wish at eleven-eleven, or you look up into the sky, or even down deep into the ground, or maybe to no where in particular, wishing with such an immense, unspeakable desire that these dreams will be dancing and flying beautifully about when you wake up in the morning, but they never are. Then, when you’re among your friends, laughs are had and many wonderful stories are told, but when they go home, you think, do they, too, experience this ravenous lust? Do they also succumb to the same level of profound depth as you do, down in this distant well of dejection? Do their eyes also lower to their feet, in that same look of terrible tiredness, gathering that the only way for them to be happy is to make everyone else sad? No, you think, this grieving plain I lay upon is touched by no other. What irreversible problems I have, what an incredible mind it would take to fathom such a trouble comparable to mine, you feel. Everything that you try to forget, even the seemingly smallest of events, never fail to appear in your eyes yet again, and you wonder if maybe you are strange. Then, on what appears to be just another ordinary evening, it’s a smile, a sentence, a gift, or a touch--shown, spoken, given, or felt, and you’re feeling okay, if only for brief while.