The world flows around me fluidly. People are wisps and fragments of color in the stream of life flowing around me. I sit here, wondering, waiting for an answer to why we're here, why we endure this pain and humiliation of being alive. Sitting up in my bed, i look around my room. It is decorated with silly, stupid things that hold no meaning to me, only placed here so that my parents assume I'm normal; so they stop telling me I need to be like everyone else.
I stand from my bed, and talk to the opposing wall. raising a hand, I rub the plaster. It is uneven, and dry, resulting from the horrible patchjob to cover the hole I had recently punched into it.
Everything seems to stand out in sharp relief. the burns covering my desk, the drawings of the things only i could imagine, yet could still not portray correctly; the several other fist shaped holes, and the scars.
"Not now," I whisper to myself. "No, not yet."
Then, falling back onto my bed, I turn up my music to drown the world, and sink back into oblivion.