Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in a well. For weeks I’ve been struggling to get out. Time is like watercolor paint, days and nights all bleeding into eachother and eventually into a giant mass of darkness. I don’t know if it’s been hours or days since I’ve stopped trying. I used to claw at the walls thinking that there could be some way out. I’m so far down, I don’t think that anyone can hear me. I keep making up stories in my mind, about anything. Anything, to keep my mind of of everything. Sometimes I wish my brain would turn into mashed potatoes; so I wouldn’t be able to think, or worry, or understand, or understand that I don’t understand. Then I wouldn’t have to think about who I was, who I am, or who I want to be, who I should be, who my parents want me to be, who my teachers want me to be, or who my friends want me to be. But all of that now slips away as I sit inside of a well, different things begin to matter.