The usual; school resumed and the yellow bus rolled around, grumbling with age. An art teacher advised me to think less of college and glamor, and instead focus on the process of creation. Creation and destruction arrive together, as I've observed. Their relationship has been noted by Picasso, the man with his colors. I did terribly in gym - terribly ok. It was ok. My life has dissolved into a pool of "ok"s, overflowing and drowning my words, thoughts, and art. It's monotonous, I'd say, but it's alright. I think I'll put down more lines on paper and more words in my journal. To kill the boredom and feel good after the tempest of emotions. It's odd that there isn't an "enter" button when I type here: a series of taps is my only means of separating these words. I think I'd like to live in the city, where I am not a traveller. walking along neon-washed streets that smell of taxi tires, fast food, and music, breathing in the city and the smoke-stained sky. In this manner I wish to live in the metropolis for about two or three years; I could spend a lifetime there; I don't know. What I do know is that I wish - I want to do something meaningful with my life, rather than waste my time throwing around words as an anonymous amongst a sea of people. I want to matter, to literary societies and pursuers of art; I want to share my ideas and hear others' too. I want, I want, I want. I sound like a needy, whining toddler before a cash register pointing at the vibrant candies, and perhaps I am: maybe I am a child still, and the sweets are recognition and conversation. I hear voices now, they intimidate me. I'd like to stay in this aisle alone. I'm alone. I feel ok. This memory has stretched on for possibly too long; it is a memory no more; it is now a narrative of events, of my surroundings, of my insecurities. I detest my physique; I ought to exercise and work out, but it will all go away when I start reading. I'll forget about my physical existence and sympathize with Mr Button, my most recent companion. Eight minutes passed and I've written hundreds of characters. There's a couple to my left, and now I am cornered in this aisle. Can't get out without asking someone sorry, excuse me? I say sorry too frequently, it's a habit now. Sorry, I try to catch the ball but I'm utterly useless in any sport. Sorry, I have to get past you to get to my locker, which I barely use. Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry; I feel humbled and inferior to you locals. Sorry, I still actually like being alone. Ok. I recognize a voice; it is of one of my acquaintaces; she is gregarious and outgoing; she knows virtually everyone. She's gone now. I'll be out of the library doors in four minutes. Today was ok. I think I answered too much in some classes. Don't want to come off as the know it all. I mildly feel like I'm back in the first three months of settling down here; I still have a handful of acquaintances, and my jocular nature has faded. I smile and nod. It's ok. writing all of this is almost meditative. It's therapeutic. All will be well.