wrote this for an english class, but i thought you guys might want to see it.
Dear Diary,
I have often wondered what the meaning of this life is. Why am I here? What is my purpose? If I have simply been born to die, what's the point in living at all?
More and more often have I wondered this lately. I question my reasoning constantly.
It has gotten bad enough as of late that sometimes, I lose track of myself, to the point where I will come to and find myself standing in the middle of a room with a gun in my hand. Then, I wonder what stopped me.
I don't know why I even bother anymore.
I am slowly learning to hate this place. My school, my job, my friends, my "family," it's all for nothing. I mean seriously, what's the point?
You spend six hours a day, five days a week, ten months a year for thirteen years in school, and all you get to show for it is a high school diploma. That's about enough to earn you a manager's position at McDonald's. A burger flipper with a title that makes about a dollar fifty an hour more than their inferiors. Whoo.
Then, if you're one of those overachievers who decide to aim high and go to college, you spend a minimum of two years (four on average) and learn a specific trait. The thing is, you pick these majors when you're eighteen or nineteen. Therein lies the problem; who the hell knows at eighteen what they want to do with the rest of their lives? They've barely begun to live. They aren't even old enough to drink yet, and everyone knows that diffiult decisions seem much less complex and are thus much more easily made after a few beers.
But that's just my take on it. Maybe I 'm wrong.
I say they, but in truth, I include myself in this category. I'm a seventeen-year-old guy, and I don't have a clue what I want in life. I admit to it. Why are you asking me all of this? Why must I decide now?
I have often heard my friends and peers talk about "getting out", leaving behind this town, their families, all the people around them. But that was never really my thing. I've never really cared enough to want to leave. No matter where I go, things will always be the same; there will simply be different cold, empty faces to study me, and to criticize my every move. A different house to sleep in every night, and be lonely in, while all the time wishing for a real "home."
However, I can understand the allure a new life would provide. A place where no one knows your name? A fresh start? Hell yes, most would jump at the chance. Not that I blame them; if I thought there was any hope of happiness outside of here I'd probably be all over it too.
Then again, I guess when you think about it, I really haven't got a lot to stay for either.
Once upon a time, I had hopes and dreams. I had it all figured out. I was going to live here, and get a good job, and find a nice house, maybe even settle down, get married, have a family. Then, I woke up.
Now, that dream is gone, along with my will to live here...but hey, no use crying over spilled milk, right?
This place is pretty much a prison. Everywhere you turn, walls to captivate you, and darkness to control you. The sunlight which shines through my window is the only thing that lets me know that I'm still alive. It is the only hope I have.
My "family" isn't actually a family anymore in any sense of the word. I won't beat around the bush with some long, drawn out explaination about how my grandfather grew up on a farm and had to walk fifteen miles to school every day, and try to say that that's why my family is so distant. Actually, I never even knew my grandfather...but I do know that we used to be happy.
After my sister Jamie died, things pretty much just fell apart. My father drags himself home from the bar each night only to "sleep it off". Whenever I do happen to see him, we fight. He actually used to hit me, until I started hitting back. now he just yells. That's about the extent of our interactions. My mother doesn't know how to deal with our broken family anymore, so she gave up on us. Now, she throws herself into her work as a method of escape and doesn't even bother to look up anymore.
Which leaves me.
I like to think I'm a fairly normal person, all things considered. Sometimes, I can be a bit cynical, admittedly. A few people have even gone so far as to tell me that I'm insane.
I'm not insane. What is sanity really, but a state of mind? if you believe you're insane, then you probably are, and if you aren't, then you'll eventually persuade yourself to be. If you think you're sane, you are.
It's that simple, really.
My school is simply a common room of this hellish prison. A place where we all go to escape the confines of our own minds for a few hours. But actually, it isn't an escape at all. It's just a place where every problem we tell ourselves we have is magnified by our peers, and where we can be picked apart until there is nothing left.
My friends aren't actually friends the way you would think of them. For too long have I been brainwashed by the standards of society, to the point where I can't even look at a friend without seeing complete imperfection. I could never be close to them, I'm too focused on their imperfections, as well as my own.
My job is hell. I work at a fast food place, and it is without doubt the worst place I have ever had to be. If this place is a prison, my workplace is a dungeon, solitary confinement without the sanctity of being alone.
But maybe I'm being too harsh. I mean hey, it's a job, and money's money. My managers are usually pretty cool. They were pretty willing to listen and offer help when I told them I was being harassed by my co-workers.
...That is, until they found out what they were harassing me about.
Then, they joined in.
But hey, maybe I'm just overreacting. Everyone's been picked on at some point in their lives. Maybe it's just been my turn for the past...6 months. Maybe soon, they'll move on, and forget about it completely.
Maybe someday, they'll be able to accept me for who I am.
And maybe someday, I'll be crowned King of France. I guess you just never know.
Really though, I don't understand what their problem is. What's the big deal? It's not like we were parading it or anything. It's not like we were sprawled across the front counter making out. I didn't even kiss him. I just told him I loved him. Is that such a crime?
I guess it must be. Ever since it happened, I've been hearing things. People will be whispering mysteriously, but will stop and smile as soon as they notice me. Sometimes, I think I hear my name.
Is it so wrong to be different? I always thought diversity amongst people was a good thing...but if it is, then why and I shunned so for this?
Maybe being different is a bad thing. Maybe there's something wrong with me, like I'm sick or something. Who knows, maybe I really am insane.
I tried to stop them. I told them to stop, I told my "friends" to stop them, I asked my managers to stop them. The attacks have just gotten worse and worse.
Maybe this was meant to happen. Perhaps this is God's way of punishing me. I guess differences are only accepted conditionally.
A stronger person than I would probably know exactly how to handle a situation like mine. They could probably take the abuse, and send it right back to their attackers without even flinching.
However, if I were a stronger person, I probably would have never given into the urge to be different in the first place.
And so, dearest diary, my good friend, I bid you adieu.
Good-bye, cruel world.
...you win.
~scarletrain~