"Car Radio"

Chapter Three: "Addict With A Pen."

I took a deep breath and let it out as I closed my journal, I shook my head as I felt a slight tear well up in the corner of my eye. My lips began to tremble softly as I stared up at the sky. This wasn't what I wanted. Confusion about life and death seemed so easy compared to living in the moment, and yet; it's complex grip, tightened itself around my throat, to the point where I couldn't even call out, if I wanted to.

Shoving my journal into my pants pocket, I led my feet down to the ground once again, and let my fingers ball up into a fist, punching the tree as hard as I could. Muttering under my breath, with tears stinging the inside of my eyes. As if I were supposed to give myself something to cry about, instead of crying about nothing but a few words scrawled onto a piece of paper

I walked into the living room, and my mother was standing there, watching me. She didn't say a word, but she knew there was something wrong. I couldn't say anything, I couldn't let my lips say what my soul was thinking, but I was able to write it down, which made absolutely no sense to me, so I didn't try to make any sense of it. I felt as if the world was weighing on my shoulders, as I walked into my bedroom, i plunked down on my bed, and closed my eyes, a melancholy sigh rolled past my lips and into the air above me, as I continued to stare at my ceiling.

These thoughts were going to drive me insane. That adrenaline rush I felt in the forest, lead me to another realization. I needed to write. If I wrote, I could let all of my emotions, fall freely from my head to the paper, and from there, I could let the stress of my anxiety disappate. I could let it evaporate into thin air.

I let my mind wander for a while before looking at my closet. I noticed I still hadn't touched my piano that I'd gotten for Christmas. Laughing, I shrugged off the thought, and left myself to my own defences. I pulled my journal out from my pocket, and began writing.

Suddenly, I felt overcome with emotion, and I just began screaming the words that were on the page, as if I were supposed to some how set them free from the confines of the page. I was supposed to immortalize these words that were sitting stagnant inside my mind. I gave these flat, mono-demensional ideas, a rounded edge, some depth -- actual meaning.

For the next few weeks, it didn't matter what I was doing, it didn't matter where I was; I began to paint words against the manilla pages as my brain continued to scream at me. I felt sick, and yet my mind felt more cured than it had in a long while.

Was this my calling? Was this what I was meant to do?

I began missing basketball practice, to take time out for writing these poingaint pieces of poetry, that echoed in the halls of my mind, and suddenly these phrases, didn't make me feel so alone. I felt as if God himself finally began to understand my prayers, and he was showing me my path. He was showing me the way to go.

For a moment in time, I was finally happy.