I fear I’m becoming more and more in-tune with the fact that I’m merely anotherlife to take.

 What’s the latest? Wildfires burning California to ashes? Stock market frenzies? A massive upshot of prices and blood bath of taxes? Oh, and even better yet, switch on the news; good ol’ Marcia Brady came out about having ‘traded’ sex for drugs, or however the hell those kindly words make up for it all.

Nomiracle spell is going to magically spout oil from the ground anytime soon, and the prices aren’t going to tremor back down to anywhere near the originals anytime soon. In case anyone out there still has a reason to doubt: we’re certainly not going up. So much for the bloody optimists' saying. Better yet, try going to a town just outside your own—if it’s busy enough I think you’ll be more than execrated to find that the price of petrol has dipped lower than yourown town. But, who in their right mind would travel that far to get to it?

Then again, why not be open to some reminding, right? I mean wildfires can be good. They allow for fresh, new forests to blossom—the world’s natural way of righting itself. But, oh wait, human’s have taken over that land and planted it with houses rather than greenery, is that right? I never did understand why the government and citizens always complained about things like wildfires, natural events, killing them off when it was very much their own fault; yet they never seem to bat an eye at the massacres and melees of war taking place at their word. Come on, seriously? Can you really feel so good about murdering your people (if indirectly) and then yell at the damn Earth? Tell me that's not the littlest bit hypocritical.

It’sstrange, the feeling of being utterly powerless in so many scenarios. But, the fact of the matter is that we’ve never had a president who could stop a depression. We’re humans, we’ve not been created to prevent such widespread trauma so far into its progress. That, and we’re far too happy being oblivious and enjoying our goods when we’re already in the early stages of a depression. I mean, after all, if we just ignore it, it will all be all right. It will somehow just disappear and correct itself of it’s own accord.

For crying out loud: I think we’re more of barbarians than we were at the beginningof evolution. At least then we knew our place, we didn’t destroy the very world upon which we depend for a few cheap tricks.

The thing is though; I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to write to be able to make sense of this. The only thing that I can comprehend is the picture playing over and over again of when it all gets worse, when it comes to a crash for yet another time in history and we’re all nothing more than lives to take: no more distinguished than a flea or a muskrat but all the same the cause of it all.

I get what I want in the way I avoid.

Does that make me completely horrible? That I should fight for something so very much, only to be disappointed when I get it.

This, of all things, certainly calls for expansion. If only because, I can tell you now, it is not what you think. I don't wish for attention or someone to understand me, nor the things I do to be recognized. I write many stories and even more poems, and yet I hate for them to be seen and people to think they understand them. There's I detest more than someone thinking that they can see inside my head and break it apart better than myself. No body can know me better than me, and that shall never change.

What I want, what I have always wanted, is simply to be left alone. I execrate when I have iPod on and people do not take the hint, instead forcing me into conversation because they know I can still hear. It pegs a great level of annoyance when strangers approach me continuously, believing they own rights to play with my hair simply because its color is rare and its springiness amusing. It's nearly as aggravating as when members of my family I've never met do it.

I loathe heat and the sun bothers me. I much prefer the calmness of the dark and the freezing chill of winter. All the same, despite that my room gets both the hottest and the coldest, I refuse air conditioning and the like because even heat is better than that. I get dizzy spells that make me lose my vision and feel as though I might faint, and I want it to be no ones business but mine. Instead I have one of the largest families I know of yelling at me about my salt intake daily--assuming it should make a difference.

I put people into a complex, and very are trusted and or loved. Despite the largeness of my family perhaps four have made it on there, and I can certainly say that none are my sisters. Some things are done for myself, such as my writing, and I find that I need to fear them taking from me and showing others that I would never. So now, a lock is in place. And trust? It could never be theirs.

At fifteen I should be thinking of my future. Which, of course, being the pathetic honors student that I am, I have. I have for many years now. What happened the last time I spoke my dreams? It became widespread news and I, however jokingly, was to be expected to do x amount things for certain people. Do things I had never agreed to. The idea became poison to my ears, burned me. And even now, years later, it's still in the gossip cycle as what I wish to be. Really, I've a whole new career in place. One that no one will be enlightened on.

As the youngest in my family I'm still the baby to many. No uncle has yet to grow out of poking and prodding me at odd points, leading me to fall out of my chair and hit my head on a counter or something of the like. This is what created my honors student image. These acts spurred me to memorize lists of words such as 'jentation' and 'pococurante'. Words to throw in peoples faces, along with Italian and snippets of other language, and a blunt honesty with physical protest when not left alone. What brought about my bubble of personal space that is only mocked by the dear bloody family.

My history is not one of greatness, nor is my family's. Most of my cousins and even my siblings started getting drunk at the age of twelve or so. Drugs came not long after. Pregnancy following for a fair few. And most of them are anything but trustworthy. I like to think that I'm decent, if I might spurn them away in doing so.

The bad bit, though? I also suffer from migraines. And they all know it. Not that it stops the screaming. Easy enough to deal with, really, even if at a party. That's where the nifty iPod comes in handy, right? Just listen to that and egress from the crowd. Some safe spot. Except they never stay safe for long, and the people only get louder.

I can reduced to tears from a migraine, sure. I have no problem admitting that as long as it's the only thing that can do it to me. But when I have my head resting in my father's side, my hands pressed so tightly to my ears that it feels they may be suctioned into them and I'm crying from the black flashes and pain that people are causing in my head, I get a little disappointed that even my dad doesn't notice. Even if all I've ever wanted is to be alone. I want at least one person to say my name questioningly, to pull my shoulder to look at my face. Or do I really cry to silently?

And I wonder, despite that going against what a person might first envision, does that not make me still a bit horrible? To wish for the attention I've always loathed once I finally get a moment of what I've always wanted.

But then you move on to the next day, and no body knows what happened, the powerful medicine I was reduced to taking and hour spent crying in my darkened room. In the very light of the next day nothing has changed, and the attention that I've always hated is all still there.

Just another typical day. And I wonder if it'll ever change.