I just need a place to put this :P (all of the book I’ve written so far)
I don’t really know why I’m writing this.
Mrs. Alden said it might help “organize my thoughts,” which feels like something people say when they don’t know what else to offer you. Like handing someone a paper towel when their house is on fire.
It’s 3:07 AM. I checked the clock three times in the last minute just to make sure it was still doing what it’s supposed to.
I keep thinking about what I said earlier today in math class. It wasn’t even anything important—just something I said to Maya. I don’t even remember the exact words anymore, which is worse, because now I have to reconstruct them like evidence in a crime scene.
I think I said something like “I didn’t study for the quiz,” but in a way that might have sounded like I was complaining. Or maybe joking. Or maybe both. Maya laughed, but I’ve been thinking about it for hours, trying to figure out if it was the kind of laugh people do when something is funny or the kind they do when they’re trying to make someone feel normal.
It always sounds different depending on how tired I am.
At first, it was nothing. Then it became something. Then it became something I should probably fix. And now it’s just looping in my head like a song I don’t like but can’t turn off. I got up twice to get water I didn’t want. I think my body just wanted something to do that wasn’t thinking.
The weird thing is, nothing is actually wrong. That’s the part I can’t explain. If something was wrong, I feel like I should understand this better. But everything is normal. School is normal. People are normal. Maya is normal.
I think I’m the only thing that isn’t fitting properly into it.
It feels like everyone else is in on something I missed. Like there was a moment when you were supposed to learn how to just… be a person. And I either wasn’t paying attention, or nobody told me.
I keep wondering if other people think like this too and just don’t say it out loud. Or if I’m just bad at being alive in a way that everyone else quietly figured out how to do correctly.
I should try sleeping again.
Maybe everyone else learned how to exist correctly, and I just missed the lesson.
School felt loud in a way I couldn’t fully explain.
Not loud like noise—just… everything happening at once without pause. People moving like they weren’t thinking about moving. Laughing like it didn’t require effort. Talking like words came out already arranged properly.
I watched it more than I participated in it.
Maya found me at my locker and said something about lunch before I had fully processed that the day had started. She was already mid-sentence when I caught up.
“I swear if you skip again I’m kidnapping you,” she said, like it was a normal thing to threaten a guy with.
I said I wasn’t skipping.
I think she didn’t believe me, but she smiled anyway.
In the hallway, I noticed things I don’t think other people notice on purpose. Like how someone’s backpack zipper was broken but they kept pulling it closed like it still worked. Or how a teacher laughed a full second after nobody else did, as their timing had been slightly off from everyone else’s.
It makes me wonder if everyone is slightly out of sync and I’m just the only one who can hear it.
At lunch, I didn’t really eat at first. I just sat there while Maya talked about something that happened in her class that sounded important to her, even if it didn’t stick in my head properly.
I kept nodding at the right times.
That’s something I’m good at. Nodding. Smiling when expected. Laughing when it’s supposed to happen. Being a person is mostly timing, I think. At some point, Maya threw a piece of bread at me and said I looked like I was “mentally somewhere else, again.”
I don’t remember what I said back.
I remember laughing, though.
It wasn’t the careful kind of laugh I usually do when I’m trying to match everyone else. It just happened before I could stop it, as it slipped through a gap in whatever usually holds me together.
She didn’t say anything about it, but she looked at me for a second longer than usual. Like she was checking if I was still there.
After school, everything felt quieter in a way that made the day feel far away, like it belonged to someone else.
That night, I tried to replay the moment I laughed.
Not to understand it exactly. Just to make sure it happened.
I think I perform being a person pretty convincingly.
I started making lists because sentences were getting too messy.
Thoughts don't stay in order. They overlap. They interrupt each other. They change halfway through, like they can't decide what they are.
At first, it was normal things,
What happened to your arm?
REASONS TO GET UP TOMORROW:
Maya will notice if I'm not there
It would be harder to explain not going
Not because it was wrong. Just because I didn’t know if “it would be harder to explain not going” is a reason to live or just a reason to avoid consequences.
Later, I added more lists,
Laughter that stops too quickly
People are saying my name differently than usual.
If the way I’m doing something is weird
Is it a good idea to kill myself in this position in time?
THINGS I CAN’T TELL IF I IMAGINE:
Maya is looking worried at lunch
Someone was laughing after I left the room
A teacher saying my name twice
THINGS I WISH I COULD STOP THINKING ABOUT:
The last one doesn't really fit in a list; it's too big. But I wrote it anyway.
I like how lists don't ask me to explain myself. They just exist. One line after another, no follow-up question, no confusion, no tone to interpret,
Later, I tried to make a “reasons to feel okay” list,
I got to three things before I stopped,
Sunlight through my window
Music that feels like it understands something I don't
I stared at it for a long time.
And I am better than the bitches
I think lists are supposed to make things clearer.
Mine just makes everything easier to see at the same time.
I don’t need fucking help.
Mrs. Alden said journaling might help “organize anxious thoughts.”
She said it like it was a simple fix, like thoughts were pages you could stack neatly if you tried hard enough.
I nodded as I understood.
I think she took that as an agreement.
After school, she stopped me in the hallway. Not in a dramatic way. Just like she happened to be there and I happened to walk past.
“Try writing things down,” she said. “Even if it doesn't make sense at first. Just getting it out can help.”
That was easier than explaining that my thoughts already feel like they're out. Just not in a way that makes them quieter. They're not trapped; they’re just loud.
That night (tonight, right now) I opened this book. I stare at the blank page in front of me and write random words about not knowing what to write.
Writing things down is supposed to make them smaller. More manageable, I guess. Like, once they’re outside your head, they lose weight. But I am not sure that’s how it works, because once I write something, I can read it again and again and again. Which means I can think about it even more than before. So I shall start writing about why I do not like asking for help.
Asking for help feels like I'm asking someone to carry something I should be able to carry myself. Jesus, that’s dramatic. Asking for help feels unfair.
If I tell someone I'm not okay, it feels like I’m giving them a responsibility they didn't ask for. And then, if they care, I have to accept that care. And if I accept it, I have to believe I deserve it. Which feels like the hardest part, because what if they’re wrong? What if they only think I need help because I explained it badly? What if I'm just convincing people I'm broken by talking about it too much?
I stopped writing for a while after that. The room felt too quiet. I could hear the clock. I am writing one more line.
Maybe I don't ask for help because I don't trust myself to be honest about whether I need it.
Or maybe I just don't want to be a burden that someone agrees to carry. I didn't cross that one out. I am sitting here thinking about how strange it is that something can be true and still feel like an exaggeration.
Maya says, "I think too much."
Maya said it like she was pointing out something obvious. Not accusing me. Not annoyed. Just… observing.
“You think too much,” she said while we were walking out of school, like she was commenting on the weather. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I laughed a little. She didn’t laugh back.
That’s the kind of detail I usually don’t forget.
We were walking past the parking lot. Cars pulling out, people calling to each other, keys jingling, doors slamming. Everything happening at once but somehow still making sense to everyone else.
Maya kicked a rock down the sidewalk.
“You know what I mean,” she added.
That wasn’t entirely true. I just didn’t know what part of it she meant. Because I do think too much, I know that. I’ve known that for a long time. What I don’t know is whether it’s something I can stop or just something I am. When I got home, I wrote it down.
“Maya says I think too much.” Now I sit here for a long while, staring at it. It looks harmless when written like that.
Like a note you’d leave yourself so you don’t forget to buy milk. But I kept thinking about her face when she said it. Not mean, not frustrated, just certain, like she had figured something out about me that I haven’t agreed to yet. I'm trying to write what I feel about it.
That felt like lying, even to a notebook. I think differently from other people. That also felt wrong, too defensive, too careful. So I just sat there for a while and didn't write anything at all. Later, I kept replaying it.
It started to feel less like a comment and more like a label, like something you can’t unhear once it’s been said out loud. I wondered if Maya meant it as a bad thing, or if she meant it like you would say someone talks fast or walks loudly.
If I think too much, what is the correct amount of thinking? Then I didn't know how to answer my own question, so I stopped trying. Before I went to sleep, I realized something so small that it didn’t feel small. When Maya said it, she wasn’t trying to understand me; she was trying to explain me. Those feel like two very different things.
“I'm going to suffocate. Under all this weight.“ Panic Attack- PEGGY
“I need to cry. But I can’t get anything out of my eyes. Or my head. Did I die?” Juliet- Cavetown
“High achiever, don’t you see? Baby, nothing comes for free. They say I'm a control freak driven by a desire to succeed.” Are You Satisfied- Manink
“Fake it ‘till we make everyone happy but ourselves” -what it means to be a girl- Emeline
“I always wanted to die clean and pretty. But I’d be too busy on working days.” Last Words of a Shoot Star- Mitski.
“Hopefully, I won’t wake up this time.” Freaks- Surf Curse
“Most days, I don’t recognize me.” She Used to be Mine- Chloe Adams
“My mind is going numb.” Falling Faster-Dylan Espeseth
“I've been falling, losing hope that anything could save me.” Falling Faster-Dylan Espeseth
“So many things I wish that I could say, but they just don't come out.” My Entertainer- Goodluck Rylie
“I just need a way out of my head; I’ll do anything for a way out of my head.” Come Back To Earth- Mac Miller
“We used to be close, but people can go from people you know to people you don’t.” Rare- Selena Gomez
Something strange happened this week.
Not completely okay. Not movie-montage, okay, where suddenly everything is meaningful, and sunlight fixes your entire personality. Just. . . lighter, slightly.
Like someone turned the volume down inside my head for a little while.
I’ve been sleeping earlier.
Not early enough to be considered healthy, probably, but earlier than 3 AM counts as progress in my book.
I started going on walks after school instead of immediately locking myself in my room. The air outside still feels cold in that damp autumn way that makes everything smell like rain even when it hasn’t rained yet.
Yesterday I sat on a bench near the water for almost an hour doing absolutely nothing.
Which sounds boring until you realize I usually can’t do anything without mentally dissecting it the entire time.
But for once my thoughts felt. . . distant.
Still there, just quieter.
Maya noticed first, obviously.
“You seem less haunted lately,” she said at lunch.
I told her that was a weird thing to say to someone.
She said, “You know what I mean.”
I laughed after that, a real laugh again. The kind that escapes before I can monitor it properly.
I’m starting to realize there’s a difference between laughing because something is funny and laughing. After all, it’s the correct response in a conversation.
Most people probably learned that difference naturally.
For me, it feels like discovering a rule everyone else already knew.
Noah, who is my brother, knocked on my door last night and asked if I wanted food.
Usually, I say no automatically because talking feels exhausting by the end of the day.
We sat in the kitchen eating terrible microwave pasta while he complained about college assignments and some guy in his class who apparently says “moreover” in normal conversation.
I laughed so hard I almost choked.
Like being let back into something.
I don’t know why things feel easier right now.
Maybe Mrs. Alden was right about writing things down.
That thought alone almost makes me want to quit this diary out of spite.
But I think something shifted.
Like maybe existing doesn’t have to feel like dragging myself through every single day manually.
Maybe it can become automatic eventually.
Maybe one day I’ll wake up and being alive won’t feel like something I have to consciously participate in every second.
That idea feels impossible,
but not completely impossible.
I think I ruined it again.
For the past few days I’ve felt… better. Or whatever version of better people mean when they say it casually.
I’ve been sleeping more.
Eating more.
Laughing more.
Yesterday Maya said, “There you are,” after I made some stupid joke at lunch.
Like I had disappeared for a while and finally came back.
The terrifying part is that I think I liked hearing that.
Tonight I am sitting on my floor listening to music with my window open.
Nothing dramatic. Just one of those quiet nights where the air feels cold enough to wake you up a little.
And for a second— an actual second —I felt peaceful.
Like my brain had stopped clawing at itself long enough for me to breathe properly.
I should’ve left it alone.
Normal people probably would’ve.
They probably would’ve just experienced the moment and continued living inside it without dissecting it afterward like a dead thing on a table.
But instead, I started thinking.
Was it real?
Or was I just distracted?
Because there’s a difference.
And if happiness is only a temporary distraction from being alive, then does that actually count as happiness?
I kept trying to trace the feeling back to its source, like if I understood it completely, I could trust it.
Maybe it was the music.
Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe my brain chemicals randomly aligned correctly for twenty minutes.
Maybe I only thought I felt okay because I was comparing it to feeling horrible.
And once I started thinking about it, the feeling disappeared almost immediately.
That’s the problem, I think.
Every time I feel something good, I immediately pull it apart, trying to understand whether it’s genuine.
I treat emotions like they’re lying to me unless proven otherwise.
Which means I never actually get to keep them.
I just analyze them until they stop feeling real.
I started making a list, trying to figure out whether joy is meaningful or just useful.
I stopped halfway through because it sounded insane written down.
Maybe everyone else just accepts happiness without interrogating it first.
Maybe that’s why they survive more easily.
The worst part is that for a little while, things actually felt possible.
And somehow that scares me more than feeling miserable does.
Because if life almost becomes enough sometimes, then I don’t know what to do with the fact that it still doesn’t fully reach me.
I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with the way I experience being alive.
I don’t know how to fix something when I can’t even tell where it begins.
I made the mistake of trying to understand myself. Now it’s all I do. It started harmlessly. I googled something at 1:14 AM because I couldn’t sleep again.
“How to stop overthinking.”
Which immediately led to:
I kept opening tabs like I was collecting evidence against myself. Every article sounded almost right, but never fully. Like trying on clothes that technically fit but still feel wrong somehow. I’ve started reading philosophy at night now, which feels like the exact opposite of what someone in my mental state should be doing.
A lot of it sounds like people who also thought too much, trying to survive long enough to turn it into literature. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it makes everything worse. Last night I spent two hours reading about whether consciousness itself creates suffering. Which is not information anyone should absorb voluntarily at 3 AM.
I haven’t been sleeping properly again. I keep telling myself I’ll stop reading after one more page, one more article, one more explanation that finally unlocks whatever is wrong with me. But every answer creates three more questions. And every question feels urgent. Like if I stop searching, something bad will happen. I shall make another list.
Things That Might Be Wrong With Me:
not knowing how to feel normal
not knowing how to not act happy
not knowing how to ask for help
not enough self-awareness
normal teenage emotions exaggerated by lack of sleep
That last one scared me the most.
Because if something is actually wrong, then maybe it can be fixed. But what if this is just what being alive feels like for me? What if there’s no diagnosis or explanation or hidden reason underneath it? What if I’m just fundamentally built wrong in a way that still technically allows me to function?
Maya asked why I looked tired today. I almost laughed. I don’t think she understands that tiredness stopped being physical a long time ago. I keep trying to trace myself backward, like if I think hard enough, I’ll find the exact moment I became like this. But every memory feels unreliable once I examine it too closely.
Maybe I was always like this. Maybe I just didn’t have the vocabulary for it before.
The strangest part is that researching myself almost feels comforting. Like, if I can categorize every thought correctly, maybe I can control them. Maybe understanding suffering makes it less frightening.
But I don’t think that’s true anymore. I think I’m turning my own mind into something to study instead of something to live inside. And the more I analyze myself, the less real I feel.
I think I've convinced myself that if I can understand what's wrong with me, I'll be able to fix it. That's probably how this started, or maybe that's how I'm choosing to remember it. A few weeks ago, I was just writing things down. Now I'm researching myself like I'm a case study. Every night I end up going down some rabbit hole that starts with a normal question and ends somewhere deeply concerning. Last night's path looked something like this:
Rumination -> Anxiety -> Existential anxiety -> Philosophers who believed life has no inherent meaning -> Can a lack of meaning cause depression? -> What is the psychological difference between wanting to die and wanting relief?
At some point, it was 3:42 AM.
I don't remember how I got there. The problem is that every explanation feels almost right. Like seeing your reflection in a distorted mirror. Close enough to recognize. Wrong enough to be unsettling.
One article says anxiety. Another says depression. Another says perfectionism. Another says I'm experiencing a normal amount of existential questioning for someone my age. If that's true, I feel very sorry for everyone my age.
fear of having too much fear
social and emotional relationships
being too tired to continue
being no one's favorite person
The last one made me close my notebook for a while.
I borrowed a philosophy book from the library. That was a mistake. Philosophers are just people who took one question and refused to leave it alone for hundreds of pages. Which means I understand them a little too well. The problem is that none of them agree. One says meaning is something you create. Another says meaning doesn't matter. Another says suffering is unavoidable. Another says suffering gives life value. At this point, I would settle for one answer everyone agrees on. Just one.
I haven't been sleeping properly again. I can tell because everything feels slightly unreal around the edges. Like the world has shifted half an inch and I'm the only person who noticed.
Today, Maya asked why I looked exhausted. I told her I stayed up reading. She laughed and said, "Nerd."
It was easier than explaining that I wasn't reading because I wanted to learn something; I was reading because I was hoping to find myself hidden somewhere in the pages. I think I've stopped treating my thoughts like thoughts. Now they're clues.
Every feeling becomes something to analyze. Every reaction becomes something to interpret. Every bad day becomes proof of a theory. I can't just be sad anymore. I have to know why. And then I have to know why that ‘why’ exists. And then I have to know why understanding it doesn't help.
Maybe that's why things got worse again. Not because the sadness came back. Because I started examining it. Like a wound that would've healed if I'd stopped touching it. Instead, I keep pulling off the bandage to see if it's getting better. And every time I look, it's bleeding again.
My phone keeps lighting up. Not a dramatic amount. Just enough. A text from Maya. A reminder from my brother. A group chat I muted three months ago and recently unmuted. Normal things. The kind of things people answer.
I’ve started spending most of my time in my room. It wasn’t intentional at first. I just kept finding reasons to stay upstairs. Homework. Reading. Writing. Being tired. Eventually, about a week or so, nobody questioned it. Or maybe they did. I wouldn’t know. I’ve gotten so good at keeping my door closed.
Maye texted me three times today. It went something like this.
Then there was no response from me, and she texted me again about 10 minutes later.
And then she texted an hour later.
“If you’re ignoring me I’m stealing your hoodie”
I laughed when I read it. Then I put my phone down on the nightstand. I don’t know why. I could’ve answered. It would’ve taken me five seconds. Instead, I stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes and somehow convinced myself it was too late to reply. Then another hour passed. Then it felt awkward. Then impossible.
Everything feels impossible lately. Not big things. Tiny things. Replying to messages. Going downstairs. Making food. Existing around other people.
Noah knocked on my door around dinner. “Mom said to tell you to come to eat.”
I told him I wasn’t hungry. Then, “You said that yesterday.”
I didn't answer after that. Eventually, I heard him walk away.
The weird thing is, I am hungry. I just don’t want anything. There’s a difference.
School has become exhausting. Not because of classes. But because of people. Every conversation feels like something I have to prepare for. Every question feels like a test I forgot to study for. So I keep talking less. Which creates more questions. Which makes me want to talk even less. It’s a surprisingly efficient cycle.
Today, Maya cornered me by my locker. Not literally. She’s five-foot-nothing and about as threatening as a houseplant. “You’ve been weird.”
“I’ve always been weird.”
There was something in her voice that made me look away.
The second the words left my mouth, I hated them. Because that’s what I always say. Tired. Not sad. Not struggling. Not drowning. Just tired. A word small enough that people do not ask follow-up questions.
I remember that Maya crossed her arms.
“You’re in your room all the time.”
“You barely answer texts.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
If memory serves, she stared at me for a second, long enough for me to start counting the scratches on my locker. A total of 3. Then she said, “I worry about you sometimes.”
I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because I didn’t know what else to do. “I’m fine.”
The lie came out automatically. Smooth. Practiced. Almost convincing.
Just like 30 minutes before I started writing, I opened my messages. Twenty-six unread messages. Most of them were meaningless. A few of them were from Maya. One from Noah. One from a classmate asking about homework. I stared at them for a long time. Then I closed the app.
Something strange happened today. When Maya was talking to me, she said something like. “You’re disappearing.”
Not you’ve disappeared. Not you’re gone. Just you’re disappearing. Like it was still happening. Like maybe there was time. I don’t know why that stuck with me. Maybe because part of me thinks that she’s right. Or maybe because part of me hopes she isn’t.
For the first time in weeks, I looked in the mirror. I looked exhausted. Pale. So unmanly. My eyes were shadowed from the lack of sleep. I looked like the kind of person teachers ask about quietly after class. The kind of person people with words like “he seems tired” or “they’ve been quiet lately.” Funny how both can be true. I stared at my reflection for a while. Then I turned off the light before I could think about it too much. Which, unfortunately, didn’t stop me from thinking about it anyway, which is why I’m sitting here at my desk under the light from my desk lamp writing about the things that keep me up at night.
I think I’m getting worse. No, that’s not true. I think I am noticing it more. That’s different. Probably.
Maya asked me to sit with her at lunch today with her girlfriend, Victoria. I said yes. Then spent the entire lunch wishing I had said no. Then I got home and wished I hadn’t wanted to leave.
I miss people. I don’t want to be around people. Both of those things are true, which feels unfair.
Everything contradicts itself
I keep imagining what I would say if someone asked the right question. Not “Are you okay?” Everyone asks that. The question has lost all meaning. People ask it the same way they ask “How was your weekend?” or “Did you do your homework?” The answer is already expected. If someone asked, “What’s hurting?” I don’t know what I’d say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Today in English, I forgot what page we were on. Not because I wasn't paying attention. But because I spent 20 minutes wondering whether loneliness is something people create or something they’re born with. Which, admittedly, is not helpful when trying to analyze literature.
Noah asked if I wanted to watch a movie tonight. I said I had homework.
I spent three hours staring at the same paragraph in a book instead.
I don't know why I keep doing that. Turning things down. Avoiding people. Then feeling lonely afterward. It feels like being thirsty and afraid of water.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm making this all up. Not consciously. But maybe I'm exaggerating. Maybe everyone feels like this. Maybe everyone is exhausted and confused and quietly terrified all the time. Maybe they're just better at handling it.
I read something online last night. Big mistake. A psychologist said:
"Feelings are not facts."
Which sounds wise until you realize facts are easier to deal with. Facts don't change every five minutes. Facts don't lie awake at 2 AM. Facts don't tell you one thing and then another. I wish I could trust myself.
I don't trust my happiness.
I don't trust my sadness.
I don't trust my memories.
I don't trust my thoughts.
And unfortunately, those are the only things I have access to.
Maybe that's why I keep writing. Not because it helps. Because I'm hoping that eventually I'll write something that doesn't contradict itself. Something true. Something solid. Something I can hold onto without immediately questioning it. I haven't found it yet.
I should be sleeping. Instead, I asked people philosophical questions over text because apparently my hobbies include treating my friends like unwilling research subjects. And if I don't understand people, maybe I can collect enough pieces of them to build something that looks like understanding. Like assembling a mosaic without ever seeing the finished product.
What do you hate most about humanity?
B. The avoidance of change. There’s so much hate around newness: new types of people, new concepts, new ways of life. There are so many people who want to go back to “the good old days” or “the golden age,” and the truth is you can't try to avoid or revert change. It's a given part of life, and the sooner people stop reacting to it, the sooner we can improve the world. *
I think that is beautiful and terrifying. Because if change is inevitable, why do so many people spend their entire lives grieving versions of the world that never really existed? Maybe nostalgia is just selective memory with better marketing. Or maybe people prefer familiar suffering to unfamiliar hope. I don't know.
Do you think people can really change?
I clarified, in the redemption sense.
A. It depends. People can grow from mistakes. They can regret things, learn, and become better. Context matters. Accidents happen. Self-defence exists. People can be manipulated, indoctrinated, or raised to believe terrible things. But there are lines. Some actions are so cruel and deliberate that I don't think redemption is possible. Change requires recognizing harm, accepting responsibility, and genuinely wanting to be different. *
* Author's note. These are responses from some of my friends when I asked them these questions! They are absolutely brilliant. I love you all <3
Then they went on a very passionate rant about a television show. Which, honestly, might have been the most human part of the entire conversation. But buried underneath it was something interesting: people desperately want justice, not revenge. Not punishment for the sake of punishment. Justice. They want victims to matter. They want suffering to be acknowledged even when committed by sympathetic people.
I think that is reasonable. I think pretending otherwise is cowardly. The strange thing is that almost everyone believes in change. Just not universally. Everyone has a line. A point where they stop saying, “People can become better,” And start saying, “No. Not after that.”
I wonder where my lune si. I wonder if I have one. I wonder if I count myself among the people who can change. Maybe that's why I keep asking questions. Because if enough people answer them, eventually there has to be a pattern. And patterns are comforting. Patterns mean thinks makes sense. Patterns mean humanity is something that can be understood. I desperately want that to be true. Because if people are unknowable, if we are all just collections of contractions and expectations and circumstances, then how is anyone supposed to know whether they've become a good person? Or whether they ever were one to begin with?
People believe in redemption, but conditionally.
People care deeply about justice.
Everyone draws different lines in the sand.
Television fandoms are apparently fertile ground for moral philosophy
Things not learned tonight
If changing and becoming better are even the same thing
Why it is 2:41 AM, and I am still awake.
I think normal people ask questions to learn about others. I ask questions because I'm hoping someone accidentally explains me along the way.
