I'm sitting here, trapped in this green box I call my bedroom. All I can hear are the literal sounds of crickets and my heavy intakes of oxygen due to my incurable disease. Dreaming about all the things I could actually be rewarded for doing, and regretting every second wasted. My diary, my hobby, my laptop this piece of technology I call my life, truly inanimate as it is, brings me joy and satisfaction. I wish I was a better child, daughter, sister, doing something to help my future, or anything that could benefit it. Instead I'm here randomly murmuring to myself and writing unfinished and insignificant stories out of my unexplainable imagination. Thinking of myself as mentally insane, mentally slow, and incapable of doing anything that is of value. Letting down the people I love the most, and giving my enemies more reasons to hate me. I'm better off reading a book or drinking tea, but seem to be attracted to made-up stories. I push my glasses up the bridge of nose, and analyze the fiction I'm currently reading and occasionally letting a tear fall down without regret. Sometimes I think about where my life is going, where? I'm lost, I'm trying to escape this spell. But I've gone too far into the depths of darkness, too late to turn back. I'm trapped.

I tried to write :x