Words are pouring out of my head too fast and I don't get a chance to write them down before they rush away and are gone. They flow from my mind, while I stand in the shower. Not even spoken and they wash down the drain along with the god forsaken Styrofoam and the stains from the cement on the bottom of my feet. I am becoming a person who needs to write lists of tasks that demand my immediate attention in order to accomplish anything. Scheduled leisure time takes a back seat to the urgent academic tasks.

Solitary is a word I haven't had the privilege to enjoy lately. It rolls around in my mind with a temptation similar to that of a Friday afternoons anticipation of Saturday in late June. I grasp desperately at any opportunity to be alone, even alone among millions of people. I crave a day to myself, the opportunity to make my own decision on how to carry out the activities of my day. This afternoon I ran away from everyone. I told my mother to expect me home by three, I was two minutes early. I spent my stolen freedom at the university, pretending that I belonged there, and that I knew who I was, and what I was supposed to be. I went to London Drugs and purchased a note book, and chocolate for my mother. I walked barefoot across the field towards the back door of my own personal hell, my own fortress of pre-teen torment. I smiled when I received compliments on my health and my personality. "Oh you must have so many friends" he said, and "oh you're looking so lovely" It's been years but I still secretly wonder if he's gay.

I don't know what to say, because the words are running away from me. I am wasting them like expensive Champaign down the sink. I feel pretentious when I write like this. I feel fake, phony. I am a pancake. It's happening all over again, and again, and again, and yet I still plan for it to happen again soon. Don't forget that I care about you. Don't forget that I once wanted to be your friend, possibly more than that, but you're leaving again and I can't get attached because you're leaving and you'll take my heart and I won't let another person walk away with my heart in their back pocket. I won't forget you, but don't expect me to cry in the back row at your funeral.

I need a day. One day, and I'll be me again, I've strayed so far in the past five minutes that I can't tell if what I have just wrote is fact or fiction.