Monologue on the Meaning of a Teenager's Life

November 8, 2011
By Kristen Albertson BRONZE, Golden, Colorado
Kristen Albertson BRONZE, Golden, Colorado
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

I’m fifteen, now. I’ll grow older still, and along the way probably work my fingers to the bone trying to get into a good college. There I’ll work even harder to get into graduate school or med school, or to get myself a high-paying job. I’ll have kids, who will also grow up, work hard, and have kids of their own.

Then, I’ll die, an inconsequential human being among seven billion others.

Not special. Not worth much.

I’ll have gone through the procedures required of any other human, another blip in the face of humanity.

But I’m not smart or talented or accomplished enough to even be a blip. I am a snowflake in front of a polar bear, a speck of sand in a drawing of the beach.

I’ll blend in so well, and live my life, and conform, so that I’ll be just like any other human.

I accept that I am smart, for a teenager. I’m mature. I enjoy challenges. I like reading and writing all the different combinations of words and ideas one could possibly come up with. I play the piano, I have since I was six years old, and I’m quite good at it.

So I live my life, writing, reading, thinking, about what life has been like for others, and for me, and what it will be like in the future.

But nevertheless, I’ll always be alone.

The thing is, I don’t really have any friends, nobody who completely understands me. Acquaintances, sure. But I don’t want to spend more than an hour with anyone but myself. I get agitated, irritated. I feel a sense of dread when I actually have to go out and deal with people. I get anxious, and tired, just at the sight of my brother – my family.

In the mornings, I don’t want to get out of my bed. That’s the joy of sleep – until I have to wake up, nobody will bother me. I have myself all to myself.

I’ve seen it everywhere. On the internet, on posters, in magazines – that not wanting to face the rest of the day and the world, staying in bed, is a sign of depression. But how is it possible not to be depressed, to hate the world and everyone within it without… without a reason to live?

I want to live like it actually means something. I want a reason. But unless you, unless somebody gives me some reason t o live… I’m done with trying so hard to figure it out.

The author's comments:
This was inspired by anxiety and depression I had had earlier in the year. I had to write a monologue for an acting class and this kind of let me find something else in myself. By writing this, I realized my feelings and began the search for a dream.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book