The Drift

It’s probably harder to understand who you are then where you are sometimes. Take me, for instance. Somwhere between the plots of Dove and This Side Of Paradise, wondering in the dark forest straight from Frost’s poetry. It’s supposed to be charmed, the life of middle class American kids. We’re supposed to hate our parents and smoke Mary Jane and have the freedom to do those things. But all my friends smoke while I turn the pages of As I Lay Dying, and the world turns, and suddenly I don’t know how to look at anything anymore. The blurred lines of what I expected are becoming less and less prevalent, and I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want the expectation, the drugs, the self-hatred, the anger, the sadness. I just want to be myself, without so many walls.