I feel as though I am made of many voices. This place is a well that I’ve dug into the earth with my fingertips. It’s where the voices in my head tend to hide. If I am different here than the way I am in reality, does that make me a liar? I don’t know. I think it makes me a different kind of honest. It used to make me ashamed that I wrote. Like the fact in itself was something I should never do. It’s because not many people my age were honest about who they were. Then again, who wants to be friends with the girl who scribbles all the time and who would much rather read a long book than talk to you? I used to throw away pages and pages of words. I would spend nights writing, and then I would regret the ink in the light of day. My eyes gathered dark circles as I drove deep into myself. Now, I am just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe that’s a kind of adulthood. I’ve reached a state of such tiredness that I’ve lost all shame, all loathing. I’ve fallen into a sense of detachment — a rehearsed smile, a routine. I’ve pushed so far that the other side has swallowed me up. There is not much light here, but just enough to leave this behind.