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by Emily Picha

Dear Journal, My fingers got burnt from the spilt tea. My face is burning from the soap I used. I am anxious about tomorrow. I am anxious for her, the girl who felt violated in more ways than one this weekend. And I'm anxious for myself, for reasons that don't really matter anymore. Vagueness, everything I say is vagueness. Just for the satisfaction that the words sounded pretty. Sitting up here on this hill, feeling deep and pretty but never getting anywhere because the vagueness sets in.. but I can't help it. Here is me, confused. I don't really understand some of these new things that are happening. I guess I'm innocent, and I guess I don't know by experience any of the things that I thought I did. I don't need to get drunk at some party and have sex with some guy to understand the consequences. I think I have that in my head already. I'm too young to get out there and really do what I want, but I'm too old to still be hiding in cardboard boxes and playing hopscotch at school.
Adolescence is so hard. And adults really don't see that the generations have similarities. And I'm trying to figure out.. the reasons and the motives behind what people are doing and finding it hard to voice my opinion. It's hard because I don't know anything. I don't know anything about life experiences, horrible feelings. I've kept myself out of it for the past fifteen years. Dear me, 11th of August, Calm down. The weather is beautiful. Love, your conscience.