the call.

everyone fancies themselves "different." unique. not just your day-to-day angsty teenager. i have reasons, okay? but sometimes i am nothing but an annoying girl who wants to feel sorry for herself because her life isn't perfect. although, if i keep perspective, it's pretty close.

how can i describe what i'm feeling? it's a tension. right in the center of my chest that never seems to go away. as if something isn't right... like a pallete of paints. everything is in order, but someone or something took a paintbrush, or maybe their finger, and just swirled all the colors to create some sort of chaos out of the order that once was.

the best part is we all think that we're fine. there's not a whole lot behind the smiles we see and the jokes that we laugh at, and the things we avoid to protect sore spots. but there is. every single person you meet, brush shoulders with, look at... all of them have stories. and people. and sore spots.

i cannot fathom this.

so what am i going to do?

i'm going to study people, and make up for the others who don't care.

to help people reorganize, and find out why.

a question unanswered by science and reason.

which is why i will succeed.