This was written for my English class, based on the Tim O'Brien wrote his first chapter/story, "The Things They Carried". Mr. O'Brien owns that story, and the book by the same name :)

Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

I carry a small bag that was given to me by an aunt when I was eight. Inside I carry a cellphone, primarily used for music, headphones, two pens, spare change, sunglasses, and a ticket stub from two years ago. Sometimes, I carry my green wallet. Inside of this article, I carry little money, and many ticket stubs.

I carry a composition journal, covered with a blue fabric. It was made by a friend who isn't a friend anymore. The journal carries stories, personal laments, music, essays. I carry a passion for writing; being able to put words down and keep it in my control. I carry intense passion for acting and singing. Expressing myself and using what I love to keep myself happy- keeping away the looming anxiety I carry.

I carry this anxiety, and sometimes it sneaks it way up to the surface. Once, it came out during school, and I carry the fear that it will happen again. I carry the anxiety I feel while writing things for school- to put in personal things or not? How could I write something that I can't feel? I can't carry that. Sometimes I carry the anxiety that she will say something again and make matters worse. Usually, though, the anxiety I carry is buried in all the stress.

The stress I carry manifests itself in different ways. It is brought out by all sorts of the things. The stress of divorced parents and a little brother, which we'll touch on later, or the stress of school along with these things. Sometimes you have to remind yourself that teachers are people, too, and I've started to notice it more and more this year, when I look a teacher in the eyes and see the same lethargic and depressing exhaustion that clouds me, too, I understand what they can carry. I carry the stress of others around me.

I do carry my parents' horrid relationship and my little brother's tainted childhood. Since when does an eleven year old have to choose who he loves more? I carry the addictions, the fights, the divorce, and the messy clean up. I carry a guilt. Is it right for someone to feel guilty about not wanting to defend their own mother some days? I carry this logic, however radical it may seem: why should I fight a grown adult's battles? I carry my craziness; or rather, I don't. Laura says I'm not crazy, but it feels like it.

I carry a lonely, broken heart. I feel so used up, how do I save myself from being spread so thin? I love writing so much, why do I feel like I don't clearly express what I'm carrying in me?

I do try to look on the bright side: I carry a wonderful voice for singing, a passion and love for the stage, and a creative and imaginative mind. I carry the will that pushes me to these things. I carry the tools and skills and motivation I need to succeed in all that I endeavor to do. I carry a journal to write in because I love writing, and I carry the music to make my heart soar. I carry these beautiful friends who want nothing more than for me to be happy. I carry a viciously energetic and happy-go-lucky little brother. I carry two parents, who do their best to carry me. I carry myself, and sometimes forget that there are others who are willing to carry me.