Dear Journal:

Whether or not the title makes any sense to the entry, I really don’t care. I feel like hell and look the part too. I haven’t done a damn thing since February Break began and the rest of the damn week isn’t looking so hot either. I’m so depressed. Here I am; this freak of nature. I think that life is a game. My therapist says I speak as though I was a criminal or con artist; always watching my back and surrounding my self with a powerful shield, unbreakable by the outside world. I like that shield. It keeps my dreams from breaking apart and flowing into the abyss. Who knows where it comes from? It just is. That’s the only explanation I can give.

Somewhere dark, that is where my true heart lay; destined to become something immaculate, yet at the same time, being stomped upon by the brutal cleats of society. I don’t need another turn to cry. I don’t want to learn the hard way. It just starts with one thing. Time is a valuable thing and I watch count down. Yet at the same time, I feel as though the entire concept of time is completely irrelevant. It’s a measurement, invented by man, so what’s to say it really exists? Yes, the sun does rise and set, the moon the same as well, but is that measurement something that we should live our lives by? No; it’s just another excuse to follow society’s standards. Good ole society…something that I’ve learned to hate with “time.” The judgments, the predeterminations, the angered look of others passing you in the street; it all drives on and on and on causing a ripple of pain, agony, and sorrow. Who the hell really gives a shit? Honestly… If society is so great and society knows best, then why do we have injustice? You tell me I’m wrong; you better prove you’re right. With such illusions, it just makes me wanna scream! You try to cope with every lie they scrutinize. I will not. I am the justice. I am the supreme. I remember the times. I am, I am, I am… That’s all that matters. I am what I am regardless of what you or anyone else has to say.

As I sit here with the music blaring, the word love appears. What the hell is love? Is it the peck on the cheek from your significant other? Is it the birds in the morning singing? The special times; is that what love is? I feel no love. I am not loved. I strive, but I lack. No matter what, sucker love is heaven sent, you pucker up; our passions spent. Like the naked leads the blind, I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind. Sucker love I always find, someone to bruise and leave behind. All alone in space and time, there’s nothing here but what here’s mine. Something borrowed something blue. Every me, every you.

Respectfully Yours,

Dustin T. McCauley, Future Doctor of Pharmacology and Internal Medicine