3 am Thoughts of a Teenager Drunk on Caffeine

Humans are unbreakable

Humans are unbreakable

Humans are unbreakable

Humans are unbreakable

Humans are unbreakable

How many times do I say it over and over again for myself to believe? I think it’s the hypocrisy of my heart, a human heart, how it aches me to fix the world, to correct the errors, and to love the flaws of everyone else but myself.

Who am I? I don’t know.

I’m a million what if’s and bonker theories. I’m madness at its worst, I’m a praiser of the night sky, and I’m drunk — insanely drunk on the idea that I can fix everything. But most of all, I am human. I feel to lengths but that’s the conspiracy because I’m breakable and humans are unbreakable

Oh dear God, I’m a misfit and the realization is crucial. It makes me want to crush mountains, run over the clouds, stand on a cliff at the edge knowing that I will fall but not being frightened; fearless. Despite that what I do instead is drag back my chair, sit on it and bleed over pages because that’s the closest I can be to wild; that’s the closest I can go to flying. With the migraine in my head getting ferocious I stare at a blank page and wonder, maybe this page is the best way to describe me; empty and hollow. But I despise empty spaces, they remind me of loneliness and calmness altogether setting a place on fire.

So I write and I write and I write to fill the empty pages.

I write about being enough, about sunsets and dandelions, about death and how lonely it can be, about how maybe villains feel too, maybe they cry when the lights go down in the empty streets maybe they wish they could change, maybe just maybe they never knew what love was.

My heart aches and breaks, teardrops fall down on pages and deep down I’m scared, I’m scared to heights because I realize all of this could be in my head. I could be going insane.

Insane for thinking death needs a friend, for thinking dark alleys are cordial places, and for running out of words.

Panic starts to drive me off, but I’m okay.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

How many times do I say it over and over for me to truly believe?

Yet with a knock at the door, my imagination comes back to my room, back to this world, back to psychology homework. Such is the irony; I am and always will be in love with the idea of writing, of falling into a black hole of my own thoughts.

Maybe that’s just who I am; a conspiracy theory, because I’ll never know myself more than this. Someone whose feet never rest on the ground but are rather in the clouds, in the back streets where no one goes, at the end of an abandoned park, hand in hand with death, insanely happy.

I’ll be okay not knowing who I am.

I’m in the middle of writing my story.