I remember sitting at a desk in my room that my parents made out of cheap wood, all wound up within myself. I remember that person writing up a CV like document of the person she was in her head, the person she thought she could be, and then cursing into a word document in bad, cheap english all of the things she hated and everything that trapped her within her own head. I remember that person wishing she were an artist, wishing she could hone all of that anger. I remember her finding pictures she liked and tracing them, then the outline, then eventually drawing them by eye, and then without reference at all. She sat there, at that desk, all angry and misanthropic, and she taught herself to draw. She covered scraps of paper with pictures of people that looked how she felt, and she stuck them up all over her bedroom walls and gloated with pride, even if they were of a terrible quality, because she'd drawn them all and she'd taken the time to, and it had satisfied something that she'd been missing. And most of all, I remember her loneliness, and I remember the fury with which she hated humanity and hated herself.

I remember another girl who was in love with someone she should never have fallen in love with. She wasn't only in love with a boy; she was in love with a moment in time, and she felt the need to document every second of that time because she didn't ever want to forget it. I remember her sitting at a school computer, hating everything that surrounded her and typing for solid hours to keep her brain from rotting. I remember her unable to find a word more powerful than beautiful to describe him.

I remember the same girl writing violently, furiously, continuously about another boy, a boy whom she loved like no other, and whom she hated at the same time, and whom she feared, and whom she feared for. She wrote, she re-wrote, she copied out, she cried. She listened to a song by thirty seconds to mars on repeat as she watched the sun rise, and she wrote, and she re-wrote, and she copied out, and she cried, but mostly, she wrote.

I remember another girl, who wasn't lonely and wasn't in love, but who had a wicked chest infection, and couldn't sleep through coughing so violently the bed vibrated. She had a schizophrenic father who'd gone into an episode, who wasn't yet diagnosed, and who kept her up all night with the flip flop of his sandals on a tiled floor and the omnipresent jangle of keys. She sat at that same desk, drinking cough medicine by the bottle and describing in great length the bizarity of his behavior, the frustration of her condition and then every item on her desk, for the sake of something to occupy herself with until she fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

I remember a girl who sat awake laughing to herself because she felt as though she knew it all. She was so on top of the world, so full of self-righteous adrenalin, power, knowledge, that she didn't need to, couldn't possibly sleep, and she hit the keys like wildfire, praising herself and loathing everything else that seemed to trivial, so below her in those moments, and she could put that feeling into words.

Now she is something different. Perhaps now she is content; and although now she is without the loathing and the troubles with living and the living conditions that plagued her before, now she is very much mentally mediocre, and she cannot write at all. And that, above everything that those people she was suffered, that is the most throttling thing of all.