Sometimes, I wonder if anything I do in this life matters. I wonder if I’ll go on to change the world for the better, or worse. Even worse, nobody will remember my name, and my grave will be an empty place with faint remnants of flowers from the last time someone, if anyone, visited. I wonder if I’ll have someone to hold, to love, a shoulder to cry on, or if will I go through this life alone. Will I be buried with at least one person I love, or will I be alone in a rotting wooden casket?
I wonder about these things more than someone of my age should. I should be out with my friends whom I’ll probably lose touch with after high school is over. I should be making mistakes, choosing the wrong choice, living and learning. But no, I’m here, writing my heart out onto a school laptop, which can probably see everything as of this moment.
If they find this, they’ll probably send me to the school counselor. Again. Be yelled at by my parents. Again. Have them say that they want me to stay. Again. The cycle will repeat as needed, or until there are no counselors to talk to or parents to yell at me. When I’ll be free to do as I please, to do with my body, my life, as I please. I could end it now if I wanted, but I won’t, because word will spread, and people will get hurt.
And I don’t want that, now do I?
But what if I want some people to feel hurt? What if that hurt touches them, pushes them, breaks them, and inspires them? What if people take action, inflict justice, and run red with retaliation? I want them to take it out on not one specific target, but the whole world. I want them to chew the world up and spit it out, just like the world did to them when they were my age. I want a feeling of peace, knowing that wrongs have been righted, and burdens are no more.
But they won’t. I know they won’t. People never seem to notice or care, until there’s nothing they can do. And then they’ll sweep it all under the carpet, hide it. But the dirt under the carpet is still there, and it stays as long as someone doesn’t clean it up. It stays with them, like sandbags around their neck. Sure it’ll be a mess to clean up, but cutting the sandbags open and feeling relief is better than carrying all that weight on their neck.
I did not expect to write a whole essay on how I felt, but it makes me feel better. It’s strange because reading this could cause sorrow in others, but writing it feels good.
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