Dreaming In Books

I don't know what's coming anymore, and that fact, more than ever, is weighing me down.

There's so much of my life that I'm not sure about anymore.  College applications are background noise: ever there, never noticed, covered by the cacophony that my life has become over the past few months.  How does one take the time to fill out mindless forms, request recommendation letters, write ten essays that all state the same things, when life is insisting that other things be done?

It's more than my internship (which is fabulous, understanding, and, frankly, a minimal addition to my busy schedule) and my reading (which I wish I could do more of).  In the past week, I've done far worse on a test than I ever anticipated and forgotten to do one piece of homework.  My mind has had little slip-ups, products of something that's been building for a long time.

I'm tired.  Four to six hours of sleep, average, does not make you well-rested.  Your brain running on overdrive because you always have to be at band, at school, at work, at the computer, does not help.  Homework, competition, work, scheduling, friendships, romances (or lack of), late nights, later mornings, forgetfulness, addled interiors, moments of deep sadness.  A series of events that punch, kick, and bite until I feel down for the count.

Some of it is of my choosing, but most of it is not, and that is what bugs me the most.  How does one justify leaving something from work, theater, school, band, blogging, life - when everything is integral to advancement?  You can't.  In this day and age, to be my best, I must push myself to the point where I'm about ready to break.

And I just need a rest.  I need time to sit down and write a review - a piece of a story - without worrying about school.  I need someone to just say "I understand" and hug me.  I have gotten more understanding from Twitter than from anyone in my real-life social circle these past couple of weeks.  Even when I mention my late nights, my crying, it doesn't make much of a difference, because who cares?  Who cares?

I'm speaking to a cave, straining to hear the echoes bounce off of the rock walls.  I'm waiting for the calm.

There are times when I want to cry.  I have not cried this much since my grandpa died three years ago.  It's a distinctive amount to me because, up until this year and that one, I cannot remember crying, as a teenager, for a long period of time (in this case, over the course of an hour, maximum).  Crying is healthy, acceptable, but also indicative of emotional unrest.

Restless.  I'm tired, and I'm restless.  This is confusing.

So, for now, count me among the growing amount of teenagers who don't know what to do with themselves.  I'm tired of being the smart one.  I'm tired of feeling like I have to perpetuate a stereotype of any kind, to prove my worth, to be humble, to be wise, to be anything.

I want to just be myself and not have to worry about the consequences.  For once, I don't want to worry about the world crumbling around me, and I want that to be okay. 

*Note*  Since I wrote this post, I remembered that I have a Calculus II exam tomorrow...which can only make things worse.  The irony of this does not escape me.  

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