Locked up inside my room, the curtains block out most of the sunlight. Still, some seeps through now and then, casting unusual colors on my pale skin. A mountain has begun to develop - on my floor, my desk, my bookshelves - of half empty Coke cans, some Mountain Dew, laundry that should have been done weeks ago, crushed pizza boxes, hardened candle wax, and miscellaneous pieces of paper torn from a notebook. A clutter of CDs out of their cases are stacked here and there, but none see any use but those that sing of sorrow and regrets, love found and lost, meaninglessness and pity.

The phone rings now and then but I don't pick it up. It's a wrong number, anyway. Or so I convince myself, checking my email but knowing I won't reply. Back to my notebook, I write words that have been written before, the same words, the same feelings, over and over.

I almost break the mirror with the force of my punch, but I couldn't even follow that through. The streaks on my cheeks from tears and dirt, I look down and my hands tremble. Hair unwashed and hanging over my shoulders, wondering why I don't even have the energy to kill myself. It's these days that time mingles together and all is lost. Days, weeks, months pass without notice, the same monotony day after day.

No! A dent forms on the wooden door as I throw a heavy book towards it. I don't care. All my books find their way against the wall, loud thugs and thunks. It feels so good sometimes to destroy. So good and pure and raw.

I will not spend my life like this.

I yank the curtains down, tearing them and I'm almost blinded by the glaring sunlight. They sting my eyes and cheeks and I stumble over the crap on my floor, falling onto my ass. A cold chill leaves my skin and I laugh aloud, jumping up to kiss the dirty glass of my window. As I look out, the world looks the same and nothing has changed, but everything is somehow brighter and fresh.