They say home is where the heart is. But what if I have no home? What if I have no heart? The profound emptiness of the saying only being paralleled by the equally profound clutter of my thoughts; I only wish to break free.



No opinion of mine is considered. I’m the youngest, of course I’m wrong. I just sit and watch as everyone I’m expected to idolize make mistakes that should only happen in the movies. “Do what makes your brother happy”, the noise echoes. “He’s leaving in a few days”. But he’ll come back home. He always comes back. The screaming, the yelling, and the bruises on my back are what his happiness has given me; what their happiness has given me. And then you see these marks on my wrists, on my legs, and you tell me I’m terrible. You tell me that I hurt them, that I hurt them and you but you hurt me, too. And what am I supposed to do? I can’t be myself. I can’t be anyone else. You won’t let me be myself, and I won’t let me be him. I’m lost in this maze, a labyrinth of suffering. How can I ever get out? How do we escape? It’s simple, I tell myself. Baby steps, I’ve said. Walking, pacing, treading, sprinting atop the Penrose staircase that is my mind, I trip, stumble, fall and precipitate forever up and down the fissures and chasms created by the ceaseless turbulence of the synaptic stimulation of the outside word.



Disregard my voice, disregard my obvious being, disregard the unimportant, incoherence of a little girl with an overcast mind. I’m just looking for the sun. Amidst the clouds and the storms, the visage of the blissfully omnipotent serenity blinding my eyes, I’m searching. For the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind I campaign myself through the morass of life, and the battleground of myself.