Life seems a blur, goals tends to be disorganized, and my drive seems to be unclear. University constantly in the back of my mind, being successful and healthy especially being that perfect person I have been set to be, trying so hard to please everyone but knowing I bring no justice to my plea, but simply an unwilling act of forced hope is thrown upon me. Maturing so fast has derived me of what I could have been, seeing my life now and 4 years ago could have marked, no wait..it could have changed me for a better me, someone who had no fears of failure, but now I feel that I am that person with no drive, knowing and understanding that I am nearing the end of my cycle simply without a backup stimulus plan .

Deciding to do something more practical is thrown my way, constantly being pushed to my limit knowing I'm about to bust and cease functioning, yet something inside me. That sub-conscious power invokes my past facades bringing them out of there slumber to reveal an unpromising future. My inner masks compromised, slowly re-inhibiting my body to go on for something that feels lost. Yet parts of me are distilled into fragments, each piece getting smaller and smaller until it is invincible to the human eye.

How long can I keep trekking an endless road with no water in me? I tend to look in the mirror, and simply practice breathing, the longer I seem to practice the more I notice that my lungs are no longer filling with air, am I suffocating in my own demise, of some hallowed realm. How long must this go on for?

Just awaken and instill me to breath...

A New Day...

Within a few hours my body will gain physically another year to it, my spirit preparing itself to withhold another years worth of memories, pains, laughs, and nightmares. I shall again dream another dream in hopes to waking up to another place. I seem to ponder about "time" a lot, it seems to phase my mind during the day of my regular routines. I wonder why or how we age, who really determines that we are simply a number? Of course we are told we were born at such and such a time, but we were not.

We were simply alive for 9 months in our internal homes. Life is but a dream? In some cases it can be good, but in most its a bad dream, humans come and go leaving this world with or without a cause, but how do you mark an eternal placement within this world? Who will remember us 100 years from now, will we be an unfortunate race, a "lost bloodline" or a legacy of some sort that will be remembered through history but most of all in peoples minds?

We do not determine whats rightfully ours but in a way we are given a place where we receive rights and a sense of freedom?

But for today this theory shall be put to rest for the years to come and it shall once again come alive when the time is right, now it is time to lock yet again another years worth of memories into a life long pensive, that I have obtained since birth and now I've come to pay my respects and say goodbye to a forever gone friend I bid you adieu my 16 year old self. For I will never get to relive these days with you, instead I will be 1 more year advanced then I was with you and for now our playground is within our dreams.

Fictitious Playground

Writing to me is a Dramatic Art, an act given to me, calling me fourth to demonstrate my ability as an actor, a mere puppet in this case reciting lines that my creator has given me. As I get in depth with the fabricated plot, the story in which I begin to piece together in scenes gives life to me, and I am able to breath and speak for the very first time. I am alive, reborn as someone else when portraying my assigned character. The sounding of each word seems more, and more believable, the lights on stage giving me a physical power and a solid surrounding is allotted to me, and I am given a temporary and limited "Will" of some sort. I suppose a contracted (Right) is granted to me. However although this story seems like it can go on forever, I know that it will not; simply because all things come full circle and end.

But who determines my ending, why can't I stick with one character, one personality, one mind; instead I am recycled and reused when appropriate. Why can I not be heard forever? My sole purpose is to belay a message, I am my creators messenger, I can speak feverishly until I am blue in the face but whether the "critics" also known as my audience; believes my performance is even more vital. They are my instilled hope for my future. My fabricated heart becomes numb as it knows its upon judgment. As I wait on stage feeling like I am being tried for high treason. I hear nothing, and although it might only be for a moments time, it feels like a century has passed me by. Will I get a standing ovation or will no one rise? Thoughts in my mind begin to surge like electricity exploding from a power plant. Will the verdict finally be revealed am I to be innocent in this charge, or shall I be found guilty and be scarred with the word Failure.

Once people grow tired of me the light from my eyes slowly fade, and I slowly begin to vanish into total darkness, my stage becoming smaller and smaller forcing me out. I am to resign and take on a title of a forgotten creation; a broken character you may say. The writer has grown out of his playground, he or she may do whatever they want with their fictitious powers. Who am I to stand in their way, I am to comply with their wishes and die as told.

I am simply a writers hobbie, nothing more then a creation of their Will...

I'm simply that fictitious character who you once referred too.

(Exit Stage)

The End