My teacher, Mrs. Etter, stands up to the class; her voice is monotonous, like a robot, "Today class we will begin our personal narrative essays. Begin to brainstorm now." I mentally groan, this personal narrative is a major grade, it is the only way I am going to be elligible for band.

I hear my teacher's voice in a cloudy daze; my mind begins to race. How can I write a personal narrative? I live in a fantasy world where my memories are buried, far too deep for me to retrieve now. I have repressed for so long that I don't realize that a part of my life is lost to me. Do I choose to find them? Or will I create another fantasy; with the simple stroke of a pen will I fool these adolescent minds before me? Can I fool my teacher? She seems too smart, but I am an expertise at fantasy.

Covering up for the sake of brutal truth, yes I am good at that. What will I do? My pen taps noisily on the hardwood desk. I don't know; these choices are hard, yet at some point I will have to make them.

I want to hide behind my pen and paper, behind the unreal wall I built up, fabricated by smooth words and charming lies, but I know one day I will have to face people, let them know the real me. So many paths to choose will I lie, or will I tell the truth? Who determines what is truth? How do we know that our lives are not based on lies, how do I know that I'm not lying to myself right now?

There is a strict line between truth and lie, and I walk it everyday, embarrassed of my life I stray towards the lie to cover my tracks. Will I ever gather the courage to tell the truth?

So many questions, no one has answers, I guess I must be the one to answer, but it will be a long time before I do. I honestly think that I have grown up way too fast, like a kid thrown into water it was either sink or swim. I swam. I've swum far too long and I'm tired.

Maturity is a fickle thing, all of us have it within ourselves but for some it takes longer to find. Is maturity based on years? I don't believe that, I'm fully mature now, well, in a psychological sense. If that were true why do some adults act like children? In high school my peers are afraid of maturity, they ridicule people that are "too smart" or "too quiet". They are all mindless drones, following one another, mimicking to fit in. God help me but I act like them.

I put on the act of the innocent, childish, immature kid who is always energetic, always happy. Inside, though, I am dark. I try to be happy, I really do, but my shadows are too big to overcome.

It surprises me that my friends have not seen the cracks in my fake exterior, they are all top of their class. They probably see from time to time, but just choose to ignore. Sometimes I do slip up, and my friends see what I try so hard to hide.

I understand that my problems are not as bad as other people, maybe they are. I don't know, it's hard to see things from the bottom up. As much as it pains me to admit it I like writing. This personal narrative crap could be good for my soul, maybe I will tell the truth. I wouldn't even have to turn it in, I could just write it then throw it away. I know one thing for certain, I am not a good writer, I am a good storyteller, there is a big difference.