The writing becomes a burden. Word after word, phrase after phrase, paragraph after paragraph, page after page. My pen presses on but I am insatiable. Nothings says it right, or enough. Nothing can convey my ambivalence, my confidence, my self doubt, my love, or my hate. Nothing can make me decide anything for sure. It is a weight. I’ve always carried my stress in my back. A tense muscle, a thousand woes and worries. I am too young to be broken, but have I ever truly been whole? And what about the pieces I’ve given away, the ones that were never returned? What about the ones I will still give away that I wil have forced back at me? They say a heart with too many fracture lines will never be anything but broken. If you want superman to show up, doesn't there have to be someone worth saving? The best now could be the worst for me later. I have thought it so many times before, if only in brief moments of disillusion. The scariest thing is not what I think; the scariest part is thinking I’m thinking wrong.