"Car Radio"

Chapter Four: "Help Me."

For some reasson, I couldn't put the pen down. Everything I touched seemed to give me musings for music. I began hearing sounds in my head, and I began feeling around the world for noises I'd never heard before. I began to seek out the unknown. The world was my mural and I was beginning to paint on a fresh easel, with these; thoughts that I'd kept hidden in my world.

But the longer I kept writing, the more I felt vulnerable. I felt like I shouldn't be opening myself up like this. What if someone heard me? Was I willing to let them into my mind? These questions began to plague me, and still I had to keep going. I had to keep writing. My mother, father and siblings didn't understand, suddenly I was in this stalemate of doing things they wanted me to do, and doing things I felt I needed to do; to keep my mind at bay.

One day, I found myself taking notes down, as I watched people, the bustling of their feets, and the swift movements of their bodies. They seemed to flow like tall weeds against the prairie sky. I became fascinated. Taking a deep breath, I remembered to slowly let the world melt around me, the ambient reds, the lumnescent blues. I was surrounded by a plethura of distinguishable patterns that I could turn into rhythms of my own.

I was alone, waiting for something to happen, during my time. I spent most of my nights, awake; staring up at my ceiling with my hands folded against my chest, asking God what it was he wanted me to do. Was I supposed to follow him? Was he even really there? I was beginning to second guess myself. Sometimes, I will wait for hours, and make up an excuse for why something happened. I'd pretend I'd just come up with the greatest idea, eventhough it wasn't my idea at all. I'd sound off to no one, in particular.

Talking to myself was a big thing for me. I always battled against my own demons and voices stuck deep inside my head. The voices crept inside my mind and made themselves at home. I was brutal on my own self. Nothing was worse than finding out that I'd unsuccessfully thrown another journal against the wall, leaving a good twenty pages, empty.

That word, "Empty" seemed to fill me with more trepidation than the word "God" itself.

One particular night, I was feeling low, my hands were clammmy, and my mind wasn't at ease, I couldn't shake this feeling that I was being watched and judged from afar. I felt like I was being accounted for actions I hadn't even commited yet. I was enveloped by this anxiousness that wouldn't let go of my body. Suddenly; it was as if I were morphing into some other person, I began to softly rock back and forth, before laying down.

"God, please. Help Me." I whispered through my waivering voice, the sobs naturally drowning out my ability to speak. "What do you want me to do? Are you even listening? Do you even care?" Those words stung the tip of my lips as if I'd just been poked with a blazing hot pitchfork. I'd never been so afraid, or upset in my life. But in this moment, I new what I had to do. I had to write out my frustrations.