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[********.
Actually, I wish my mind was thinking that.
Well, no, that's the state of my mind.
I think if a doctor were to diagnose me right now, he would be speaking calmly to my parents, while I'm sitting in tow.
"I'm sorry, but your child brain is under the influence of a horrible mental disfunction called ********, that makes them shrewd, intolerably dispassionate, and addicted to some form of candy-corn in an attempt to make them feel something.
The doctor presses his hand to my mother's small shoulder. "I'm sorry... there's nothing we can do."
She bursts into hysteric sobs as my father tries to comfort her to no avail. And I sit there, blankly looking at them, wishing I could tell them that I'm sort of alright, although I know I've got ********, I just can't do anything about it.

The sky outside is gray. It has been all day. The lake is still as glass. I want it to rain, even though I know it won't.
I feel like a soldier, waiting in line barely holding on to a MP5 Submachine Gun, because this is a special case, although I'm suicidal. That's why I joined the army.
Although I'm waiting in line, there is no line at all. As a matter of fact, I am alone in this line, standing by myself. There is no opposing line to mow down, so I'm left there by myself.
And I'm satisfied.
The wind feels good in my hair.
I'm alone.
And it feels good.


If this doesn't make much sense to you, then I, as a person, must not either. I hope you're not too close to me and surprised.

******** isn't really doing much for me right now.
I've been having this long line of vivid dreams, that disturb me more than I can describe.
Every night, I'm someone else, but every night, it's still me, but in different shoes.
And every night, someone is killed. Or beaten. Or raped. Or maimed.
And every night, I'm witness, and I can do nothing.

and every night, it's a child. No more than 20. They're all kids.
Just kids.
Why doesn't anyone else understand that?
They're just kids.
I'm neutral.
It hurts.