13 November 2005

Ouch. I think my brain is fried. This morning was my English exam, and I wrote a three and a half page essay. I'm not sure how, or why. It's not like I enjoyed the novel we studied or anything.

Kenneth sits back. He twirls the pen though his fingers, letting the diary slip off his lap onto the bed. He stares at the wall, thinking.

English exam. He's writing in his diary about his English exam. There are people dying and being born and fighting and laughing and crying this very moment, every moment, the world over, and he's sitting here, recording in his diary about how many pages of essay he wrote.

It suddenly all seems so petty. So worthless. So pointless.

He pulls the journal back to him.

I want to make something of my life. There has to be more than this. There has to be. I don't want to be famous just for the sake of it; I want to do something to help.

I often get the feeling that the world is not enough. No reason why. My life is peachy, I should be happy with it. But writing three and a half page essays and getting over 95% for every science test isn't what I want the sum total of my life to be. It's not enough. I want more.

He shuts the diary, sighing heavily. He can't put this feeling in words. He feels restless, unsatisfied, and eternally doubtful. As if, as if . . . as if the world isn't real, as if he is floating, a two-dimensional figure in someone else's dream.

"Crazy," he whispers under his breath. "This is crazy."

He looks at the clock, 7:15 on Monday night. He has study to do, but Kenneth is startled to realise that he honestly couldn't give a damn. Usually school is his life.

He gets up slowly, clicking the lock shut on the diary and leaving it on his pillow. The pen he sticks behind his ear.

Aimlessly he wanders through the house. Gets a drink of water in the kitchen. Checks what's on TV in the living room (nothing good). Makes sure the front door is locked. Returns to his room and sits down at his computer. No new mail. No replies to the comments he left at The Noticeboard. Nothing.

Kenneth Jackson sighs again. A song lyric comes to mind.

"Is there something more than what I've been handed?"

He listens for an answer.

No. Nothing.

(Quote from Hoobastank's "Crawling in the Dark")