It starts like this. This is the way it starts Every time it starts like this. And as I put the pen to paper, as soon as the muse’s spring began flowing, it stopped and dried up, like my will to keep writing. The sheer, pointless gravity of movement weighs down upon by being as all words ring hollow and I hear them bouncing through the gaping void inside of me, and suddenly I feel a great hunger, an irresistable need to keep eating, eating whatever’s in reach, spurring my otherwise heavy muscles into irreverant weight gain. The once full bag drifts down to half and I cast it aside. But my tired eyes see no sleep and my eyes weight me down in certain stupitude, and the annoying hunger pangs return until the bag is down to a fourth. I don’t desire the refuge of online compulsions. I hide myself from the lies of IM services. Why should I explain myself to the vast void that passes every day around my zombified form? Why speak to my confusions? For I live in loneliness, die in loneliness. And in that moment I feel a oneness with the freaks in my books, the freaks around the world, wherever they may be, smeared on the cheek with dog—-, a mark which no paper towel can wipe off, an identification tag that no amount of medication or therapy can fix. I am one of them, the very rare breed that hides alone in the shadows, pouncing on the scraps with rotting teeth barred, feeding on the meat left over by the normals. Chalk a wasted life up to insanity. The hunger is my pain and it never fills. What else can I do but waste away? Trapped in this speechless nonexistence… would it matter if I had been born normal? All the insanities of the world filing through my tv everyday – I do not watch the news. But it is inescapable. It’s vomit worse than the stolid neglect of my room. I suppose it doesn’t really matter because I am not truly a part of it. Getting harrassed by old men with bibles is as inescapable as the furious buzz of facts swirling around my mind. My head is heavy with the information for the next quiz, the next test, the next lifestyle. Will it ever come? I don’t think so. But that’s beside the point. It can’t erase the sheer desolation I feel, the emptiness I feel sitting alone in my room day after day doing homework or making flashcards or playing old Nintendo games. The tedium of going to class every day, the tedium of the snifflers and the slow walkers and those mindlessly gabbing into cellphones, the tedium of going to therapies and taking medications and attending after-school activities. For it all ends the same. What would I do if there was someone who could sit down and listen to my whole story and sort through my twisted soul, poking some sort of clarity in my confused jumble of thoughts and emotions. I can’t imagine companionship of any kind – it is so foreign to me. Though perhaps I can live like that. It’s easier to not speak at all, to never have to worry about others. I’ve already spent my whole life doing that. That is why I’m still alive. But this futile, meaningless thing they call life? Eating and sleeping and studying and learning and sleeping and studying and learning and eating and still empty, still devoid of meaning, of emotion, of joy. Motion without joy. What makes life worth living? I, like the spring of my creativity, dried up and blackened with death long ago. Only the shell remains…Only the shell remains.