Maybe at one time I thought it would be cool to be this way–not for a long time, though, and now I can’t find a way to escape it. I could still write those poems of longing that occurred to me in seventh grade, just with a deeper sense of loneliness and grammatical maturity. I see everyone turned off by my quietness and timidity, the lack of “funness” in me, and I am afraid sometimes that taking pills or being electrocuted will just make me ok with hiding away. I don’t choose to stay alive just to do that. I want to spread love and make things for people. I want someone special to know these passions even though I have trouble unearthing them from beneath mental illness and lack of confidence.