She sees so much beauty, in everything but herself. She found love in uncharted waters, past a depth that could even be calculated. She tried to give to others, so that they would have temporary happiness. She sought out to be a person unlike anyone else. Instead she discovered she was ordinary, just like so many others. She was tired of making up for lost time and wrong actions. She just wanted to move on. But there were so many things inside her mind that had just been ignored, pushed aside, to be dealt with later. She slowly began becoming aggrivated with all the concepts of life again, and her insignificance became evident to her self all over. She was worthless me and aching for something that wouldn�t make her hurt the way she did.

Last night she sat alone in the darkness of her room, listening to Rhubarb watching the sky with its occasional night plane flying idly overhead. Rhubarb made her feel beautiful, Rhubarb made her cry because of the being she always thought of. Rhubarb was her life�s oxymoron, as she could only cry with her eyes closed. This way she was unable to see anything. But it was Rhubarb that made her scream out emotions never felt before, and it wrote for her. It wrote to the boy she loved. It spoke of feelings that were thought to have been indescribeable. Rhubarb made her body ache in a way it never did before. It made her look at the empty space in her bed, feeling the cold of the sheets as there was no body of the boy to warm them. The boy was far away, tucked inside his own home.

�I wonder if he�s wondering right now,� she thought.

�I hope he knows and feels that I love him.�

But she hurt the boy by her actions, making him feel that he was not good enough to live and entertain the life that he does. She loves the boy unlike any other human in the world. It is this love that makes them beautiful. She wanted more than anything for the boy to see himself through the eyes that she saw him with. She hopes the boy is reading...and she hopes that the boy is okay.

9:14 A.M.
This is going to be short, as I have to get to school.

3:43 P.M.
I am my father's stomach ache. I am his worry and his frustration. I am what keeps him up late at night, when I am out elsewhere. I am his problem. He wants me confined, kept up, so that "nothing will happen to me". He wants me restricted...is this his way of showing that he cares? And he can't come to me and talk...for we both know that it will result in an argument. So he goes through my mother, who has to talk to me. She is the peacekeeper, the mediator. He cannot talk to me, he cannot approach me. So he goes through my stuff instead, figuring that I will never find out about it. He then proceeds to conjure up 1,000 questions in his head for my mother to ask, none of which she really cares to hear the answers to because she trusts me.

But maybe he deserves to worry himself sick if he's not willing to approach me. If snooping around is his thing, then maybe his mind deserves to wander endlessly. I could start writing really descriptive things, about sexual encounters, try to refantasize my experiences with drugs and the like...But my life to him is already a problem.

9:52 P.M.
I'm tired of being me. I'm tired of living and breathing and walking and thinking and everything. I'm tired of being controlled by such insignificant things. I'm tired of being controlled by traffic lights and lines painted on the ground. I'm tired of there always being a superior force lingering above my head. I'm tired of answering to people, constantly having to explain myself and my actions. I'm tired of being a problem for everything I touch and love. I'm tired of me. Goodbye