My head hurts.

Not my whole head, and not because I have a headache or anything like that. Just that spot on the back that's softer than the rest of it. You know, the part that hurts like a bitch when you crack it against something? Yeah, that part.

I wish I could rub it or something. I know it wouldn't help the pain, but it'd be more comforting and I think I'd feel a bit better. I'm having a bit of a dilemma though. I can't seem to lift my arm. It's not like my arm is paralyzed or something, but my brain isn't putting enough effort into commanding the little nerves to move it. I mean, usually it's just a normal motor function, right?

External stimulation.

Brain evaluates data.

Electric message sent.

Motor neurons rebound signal.

Muscles and glands receive.

Tendons contract.

Muscles stretch.

Finger twitches.

Normally it's that easy. Maybe not in so many conscious thoughts, but it happens. Normally. Not right now, though. My brain is not quite putting enough effort into it today.

Either that or I don't have enough will power. Movement is commanded by will, is it not? You have the will to live, to breathe, and therefore your body follows your commands. It walks, your chest compresses and expands, your heart beats and your nostrils flare with breath. So... does that mean, if I don't have the will to move, my arm will just lie there? That if someone who didn't have the will to live, their body would just stop? Their heart would slowly dwindle to a slow beat, and their chest would rise and fall slower and slower, until coming to a complete stop? Would the neurons in the brain stop endlessly moving, rendering the person immobile? Would they be left in a vegetative state where their minds slowly dwindled into nothingness?

Who really knows? Or maybe, just maybe, the will to live is deeper than in conscious thought. Maybe, our bodies, which work endlessly without thought or direction, have an internal need and unconscious will, per se. With that in mind, would our body work against our greatest wishes? For example, if your greatest wish was to die, would your body ache and protest, and struggle with every pump of blood, with every miniscule twitch of the finger to force you to move? To live, and to continue on with your existence even though you wish nothing more than for the sight beyond your eyes to go black, and the endless white noise in your ears to cease?

Maybe that's why I can't seem to lift my arm. Maybe my body subconsciously knows what I want to do and is putting a stop to it. That's kind of scary, if you think about it. Like an alien being living inside your brain, sitting in front of a huge control panel, thinking, Hmm. What should I make my little rat do today? Perhaps I should administer a little adrenalin to the subject and chart out the chemical changes in the blood stream?

A human body contains more than ten billion interconnected nerve cells. That's over ten billion delicately intricate ways to be physically hurt. This means you have ten billion involuntary reactions controlled by something you like to think you are the god of. But in the back of your mind, you know it's really the other way around.

I find this a very scary concept.

I can't quite remember why I'm sitting here anyways. The doorframe is wedged uncomfortably in the middle of my back. It's kind of old, so I think I got a splinter on the way down, and my shirt got hitched at the spot where it stuck. It itches, but there's nothing I can do. I feel rather useless, actually. Sitting here, I mean. I could be doing something, rather than thinking all these disturbing thoughts. Why am I psychoanalysing myself anyways? You'd think I had better things to do with my time. Then again, I have collapsed, and I am now lying practically comatose on the floor.

I'm bored. If I could at least clean my nails, that would keep me occupied. I like to clean my nails. I don't know why. I usually do it when I'm bored, when I go to the movies, during a test, and while I'm listening to my friends talk about their problems. Maybe it's more of a nervousness thing then. I never thought of that. When I'm bored, it could be unconscious and all that, but then why would I do it during a movie or otherwise? Maybe it's the thrill of the chase? The adrenalin rush, coupled with the trembling unknowingness? Ah, action/adventure movies are such a trip. Tests on the other hand... Okay, enough said, I think. Anyone gets nervous during a test. But being nervous when my friends talk to me? I don't know the answer to that one. Maybe I'm just articulating what to say, and therefore I get nervous in case I say something wrong that might upset them.

Or maybe I'm just trying to escape by amusing myself with something mundane like the little fleck of dirt under that one nail that I just can't seem to get, not even with my teeth.

Speaking of my teeth, they're feeling rather gross right now. What DID I eat this morning? I can't quite remember. I think it was a muffin or something. Mom likes to buy those berry muffins. Sweet stuff hurts my teeth, but I like the taste, so I eat them anyways. They have an evil aftertaste though.

Wait, I didn't eat a muffin. I had leftover Chinese food. Why am I getting such weird memory gaps? I hope I'm not getting Alzheimer's Disease, though I think that's impossible at my age. Maybe it's juvenile Alzheimer's? I don't know. It's unnerving to forget things though. Sometimes I have a whole day that flashes by, and I can't remember anything that happened. I'll go to school the next day thinking it's actually the previous day. It's like some kind of strange deja vu or something.

But anyways, I'm getting annoyed with myself. Why am I having these stupid scattered thoughts? I'm thinking just like her...

I don't want to think about her right now.

Once again, I'm trying to escape. That's mildly amusing, considering that's how all this started. Ignoring what's supposed to be important, running away from feelings, hiding from what I know is really what I think and then being lazy and just deciding that making the decision just it isn't worth it. I suppose that's my description to a 'T'. I'm lucky my friends don't know how numb I feel.

I just thought of something. Why do human beings have to care so much about other people? I know endlessly asking yourself 'why?' will just drive you crazy, But sometimes you just dwell on things. They make you depressed, you cry, you sleep on it, and then you forget about it. That is, until the next night, when all your friends are at home, you have no significant other, you can't talk to your family, and you're all alone. Then suddenly, with a horrible clarity, you realize you're all alone, and you feel so damned raw. Then for some reason you just can't cry, you can't sob, and all you can do is shake and shudder, clench your eyes tight, and hope that the feeling goes away. That it all goes away and you don't have to deal with it anymore.

Sometimes, when you wish for something enough, it happens. It happens because unconsciously you change. Day by day your unanswered wish is festering inside you. It molds your insides and it changes your mind. What once was right is still right, but you become a hypocrite. Forcing a smile to your face. Forcing a laugh to bubble from your throat.

The problem develops when you don't realize it, when your refuse to acknowledge it. Because there will always be someone who will notice. Because there will always be someone who will one day hear that hysterical edge to your giddy laughter, who will see the dark purple underneath your eyes, who will notice when you have yet another momentary lapse of awake unconsciousness when you look out the window.

The problem develops when you lie about it. If you understand why you feel that way, and why this is affecting you, then you're okay. You can try to rationalize it. You can pretend you're just a suffering artist, and nothing can be done, and you can consciously keep them at arms length. But if you try to ignore it, try to go on as always, only letting yourself feel it for a few minutes each night, you're in trouble. You'll explode. You'll shred yourself apart from the inside out. The face you wear will become too happy and it will lie to the world, and it will take vast amounts of energy to keep up the facade. You'll lie, and smile, and laugh, and comfort, and then you'll fall apart. And when you do, you'll look inside your gleaming mask for some recognition of what you once were. And you'll die.

Because you'll find there's nothing left of the past.

There is only a shell.

There is only you.

There is only you.

This is the turning point. You either sit, like I am sitting, and ponder ridiculous musings until you regain enough of your will to move out of your uncomfortable position on the floor...

...Or the will of your deepest wish overcomes the will of your body, and you waste away. You pick up that bottle, or that knife, or that length of thick shaggy rope. You then cease to exist.

I hate the saying that it's easier said than done, because it's infuriatingly ironic. Thinking about these things, and the great end to the most sinuous of all cosmic jokes; knowing that you have complete control over yourself the moment you realize you want to die makes it seem so easy. Unfortunately, it's not. I've come to that conclusion at least.

It's still early afternoon. The small window of my basement bedroom is open. Opaque sunlight comes through, making all the dust particles in the air visible. Why am I noticing all these strange things? My eyes are itchy and blinking doesn't make it stop. Looking up at the window makes my eyes dilate, I'm sure. I have a song in my head. Sometimes you get a song playing in there that seems so ridiculous for the situation. I think it's Tchaikovsky or Bach or something. I can never remember the classical stuff like I can remember the dance music. Classical is like rap, only I'd rather stab out my own eyes with a plastic fork than listen to one more P. Diddy song, while I find classical quite relaxing and passionate. Rap is there, and it's all the same. To lovers of it, it's as diverse at the species on this planet, but to those with only a passing affection for a tad here and a bit there, it's all the same.

This song is soothing, but very melancholy. I think it's supposed to be a happy one, but I can't help but think the artist had this underlying sadness in his mind. It's as if he was saying goodbye to someone, but he was letting him or her go, not simply offering a farewell. It's beautiful.

It plays on repeat in the back of my mind. The mournful wait of the violin accompanies by the heartbeat of cello. With every soulful glide of the bow across the strings in my minds eye, I can feel something welling inside of me, in time with the rising crescendo. The swelling of sound comes to a peak, and I can feel something overflowing inside me. The progress is slow, and it encroaches carefully.

Suddenly, the reality of the cold steel in my near lifeless hand is painfully real, and I'm scared. I notice my hand is shaking, and I wasn't even aware of it. The blade trembles in my hand and falls onto the floor as it hits the linoleum it chimes, then rattles on the floor until it comes to a complete stop. I stare at it, like it's alien to me, even though my body's become accustomed to it in the past couple of days. I can't bring myself to blink, and the sun that's moving into the window is going into my eyes. The light doesn't look the least bit warm or comforting like those famous poet guys try to wax on about. It's cold and aloof. It's far away, somewhere where I can't touch it. It's white and it stings, and it makes me hurt even more. I try to blink away the freezing light, but my head doesn't want to move either.

My eyes burn, a sharp contrast to the frigid wind of my basement. My face becomes ice cold down the sides, as the tears fall in rivulets. The tears come faster and with every shuddering breath, my body convulses, and I'm overcome with a horrible shivering.

How many screams of misery have I dammed with these white teeth? How many times have I clenched them shut with anger, pain, and humiliation? How many times have I had to squeeze my eyes shut tight, forcing the tears back, swallowing that choking lump back down my throat? And only now, in the bitter cold of my cement basement, a knife by my hand and a song that won't leave me in quiet running through my head, I wonder, can I let the world know how badly it's scarred me. Only now can I finally tell them all to 'fuck off' because I know I shouldn't have been treated that way and it wasn't my fault I was different. Only now can I think of salvation. Only now can I think of clawing myself up out of the dark pit I've created in my own mind.

I'd like to pay more attention to the melancholy song playing in my head, but I'm suddenly aware that my eyes and swollen and they hurt. That's what happens if you don't cry for three years. Now I'm painfully aware of my surroundings. There's nothing like a sharp jab in the retina to get you up in the morning.

I feel the floor under my head. There's a small bit of dirt poking into my cheek. Tears are still trickling out of my eyes, dripping down into my nose and mouth. My arm is twisted painfully underneath me and I can smell mothballs from the hall closet. Somehow I've managed to wind up lying facedown on the floor, my legs and arms curled up underneath me. It's funny how when we need comfort the most, we revert back to when we were unborn, and unconsciously curl into the fetal position.

Either that, or once again, my body has different plans for me and now that I've relinquished control it's trying to conserve all the heat it possibly can in preparation for movement.

My mouth twitches a little. I can't believe I'm finding myself amused at a time like this.

I'm not crying anymore, but now I'm staring blankly at the wall. I'm glad it turned out this way, in the end. Maybe in the darkness of every soul, there's a little light struggling to climb free of the oppressing will. Maybe the soul really, deep down inside, coexists with the body for the same means; to exist, to live and let live. Maybe that during the bad times when you feel so down you just don't want to do it anymore, it's really just desperation overtaken by hopelessness, and you get lost. But the end will never justify the means. Sometimes you just don't figure it out and then you get lost, but sometimes... Sometimes you can recover. You can grope at those frigid walls with bleeding fingers and pull yourself out of the grave you tried to dig for yourself. It's never game over, not until you completely give up, and not until your helplessness stamps out the fire in your will to live for that one second it takes to make that jerky movement across your wrist. I should consider myself lucky that my body is pissed off with me. I guess I get to crawl through one more day. Although somehow, I can tell it won't be as bad as yesterday.

I should congratulate myself. I've had an epiphany.

Pachelbel's Canon.

In D Minor.