Somebody once told me that stupidity is one of two things see most clearly in retrospect. The other is missed chances. I promise to take every opportunity life has for me. I will make sure to live out every moment of the amazing things life has to offer, big or small. I shall conquer the concept of fear forever, no matter how inevitable people claim it to be. We're not here forever, so why try to live out somebody else's expectations for you instead of living up to your own? That's how I feel with Mom and Dad.

My parents try to paint some fake, unrealistic world that everything is going to be peachy and perfect, if I follow the plans that they have for me. As if what they allow me to do will result in perfect long term results and success and act as if the only time they'll ever be proud of me is when I live up to their standards. Forget about drawing up a conduct of a future goal I have for myself without confirmation (which will be pointless, seeming as I never win, even a constructed argument filled with proof) I'm not allowed to go out without telling them about whatever it is two weeks prior to the commencement of the event, and no boys allowed - 'cause you know, always make a list with three options or else it looks weird.

I think they sometimes forget I'm sixteen. Sixteen and a half, on a technical level. It's not June yet. Quite like the adrenaline you receive while running a marathon in a competition, that's how hard I feel I'm working to please my parents. They really work their assess off to support me, although I feel it's typically for the wrong reasons. I don't want them wasting their time and effort trying to decide what they think is best for me instead of just listening to what I want for myself.

I sip my tea, playing with my pen, trying to get inspiration to write something as I look out at the spring, breezy, flowery-treed view, watching the sun rise; nature really is a very powerful ingredient to getting inspiration for me. I remind myself that my thoughts are like clouds passing through my mind. I try not read too much into them, or delve too deep into my feelings-it usually doesn't end very well for me. It's not like I'm trying to hide from them, I'm just not in the mood for another bout of depression and anxiety over my own in-depth philosophies about life. Guess my mind is more powerful than what I know.

Some people tell me it's good, that it's artistic, like I could need some of that considering I am a writer of poetry. Like a bodybuilder, I'm sure most people would agree that they would want the hot body without the hassle of all the days of working out, and eating right. Just like I want the art without the darkness I have to put my mind through. I feel like I have a goal to fulfil within my soul, my own needs, not my mom's or dad's.

I close my notebook and hop off the seat near my window, closing the curtains.

Outside, the sun rose.