So what shall I tell you? That I don't go to my classes because I cannot make them feel important? Or that I stay up all night rushing through my feelings so I'm too exhausted to hear my alarm clock the next morning? Because both would be true but neither will be said.

My mum isn't talking to me and I miss her. It seems like people play such stupid games to deem themselves some fake importance, to make life meaningful in some sense, to pretend that we're here for a reason and that there's standards we must measure up to. But there are no standards really, right? Just those that our parents or our teachers uphold us to. When did they forget how difficullt it is to be young? When everything can come crushing down from just one wrong feeling, when we still believe our hearts and the promises people make to us...

I don't want to die without any scars. Would you understand that? Or would you tell me that truly wise people learn from the mistakes of others and not their own? But wouldn't that be a life lived through someone else? Wouldn't that mean that I'd be like a guest at a drive-in cinema, watching the huge screen as people lived out there, as they loved and fell and lost their way, only to find a better one later?

I have a choice to make. Next week, I could either go there, to Peter Pan, or I could stay here and be the perfect example of a student that is required of me by your standards. Will you still love me if I choose the former?