I am writing in hopes that you will help me. That you will save me from a cruel world. (I have always found that if you are overly dramatic, people will pay attention � until they are utterly annoyed.) I have decided that I cannot handle life. I would like to commit myself to your fine facility, and I would hope that you would do your best to accommodate my fears.

Against the strong wishes of both my parents, most of my friends and teachers, and the school administration, I chose not to attend college. I did in fact have the chance to go. I maintained excellent grades in high school, was a member of the National Honor Society, and was certainly a responsible and intelligent young adult. I was and am a creative and artistic person, and I believe that I am very skilled all around. I enjoy culturing myself just for the sake of being cultured, and I delight in wasting away my days reading and writing.

But I found myself constantly disconnected. Far from suicidal, but frequently depressed. I felt misunderstood (though doesn�t everyone at some point or another). Still I felt that my motives and goals were extremely far removed from the those of the people around me. Those who knew of my decision to end my education after the completion of the twelve grade were very disappointed and puzzled. They felt I was throwing my life away. I was attacked on a regular basis by my peers who assumed that I would make nothing of my life. I developed the insane Ideal of becoming a bum on a street corner begging hopelessly for change. I used this image to sarcastically mock those who disowned me because of my decision. I attempted to always remain fervent and strong, but inside I was torn and hurt.

I have always maintained strange perversions. I delight so completely in being alone, and for a long time I planned on one day becoming a hermit. (This was during a time of great emotional depression for me, however.) I am easily frustrated with other human beings, and I have of late taken to labeling myself an agoraphobic. I am not comfortable with working as part of a group, and yet in such situations I find myself taking over as leader and queen bee of such an undergoing. The quality I loathe most in human beings is hypocrisy and yet I find myself to be a highly hypocritical person. (This is an unlucky characteristic which I inherited from both my parents.) When I am not allowed to be myself and when I feel that the people I am around do not understand or accept me, I accuse them of disowning me. I feel separated, and I despise this feeling of separation. And yet, in retaliation, I separate myself even more. Thus becoming just as guilty as those I am separated from.

I am a societal deviant. I feel that I am a danger to my future and to those I come in contact with. I have a serious fear of Reality and Responsibility. I do not have the capabilities to deal with either. I have always seen the "mental institution" not as a prison wherein is locked those who would rape the innocence of the sane, but as a sturdy refuge for those unable to fend for themselves. I have looked upon it with expectation and excitement.

I set my goals too high perhaps. I once dreamed of succeeding in this world without a college degree and that in itself is, of course, impossible. (I realize this now.) I laughed at those who told me I had no ambition, for I had all too much ambition. I was ready to conquer the beasts that stood before me, the beasts of business and happiness and success. And I would always have Time for everything.

But now I fear Time. And I weep for every day that goes by wasted.

I have never been accepted for my atheism. I have been spat upon, and I have had those who would try to convert me but who never succeeded. I have been insulted and disrespected. But I hold to my belief that we, or at least I, only have one life to live. My days are numbered. And than after this farce, this fiasco is over there is nothing more that awaits me. On more than one occasion I have considered changing my stance on religion because of this impending doom, because of this atheistic belief that the life we live is all we have. But I cannot be who I am not. I despise how the hours tick by unnoticed. How the clock continues never-ending. I wish I could be trapped in any moment. I wish Time would rip and I could be caught forever in some warp loop and all the clocks would stop. I DO NOT WANT TO GROW UP.

I cannot hold a job. I find myself wandering away from any current place of business carelessly. I give no thought to the consequences, and think only of the more meaningful things that can be achieved in one day. Work and money are worthless empty things to me. And I am disgusted by the feel of a dollar bill in my hand. Often I go on long car rides into the wilderness. I have wasted thousands of dollars in gas on beautiful back roads that lead to nowhere. I often dream of traveling cross country. And I would take the time to smell every flower and see every sight. There is beauty in everything. And if not beauty, then irony.

The other day I found myself wondering why human beings think themselves so important. Does anyone say any word or experience any emotion that is of any significance whatsoever? We are trite and pointless. I find myself in the middle of a story stopping to ask myself why I am even telling it. I wonder if the person I�m speaking to even cares. Why does anyone tell anyone else anything? Our emotions are unoriginal, and I am not the first person in history to feel so lost and stammering. I question our existence so thoroughly, and I feel only frustration.

I keep a notebook of all the things I need to remember. I take the Time to write down all the things I want to do, and yet I never take the Time to actually do them. I am a Listmaker. I am always afraid that if I don�t write everything down, it will be instantly forgotten. And then all my thinking and all my considering will have been for nothing. That, I feel, is my purpose: to think up ideas that have already been realized and write words that have already been written. I must remember things and feelings that have no business being remembered. And perhaps the whole idea of being the best person I can be is impossible and pointless. We all think ourselves so perfect. We have a difficult time finding fault in ourselves, and we are deeply offended when anyone else does. And yet we are also insulted when someone calls us perfect, or assumes that we think ourselves perfect. I know my faults and I despise them, and myself for them, and yet I do nothing to improve myself.

I am a different person every day. I use clothing to define my personality, which is ever-changing. I fool others into thinking I am what I am not. I come across to many as outgoing and spontaneous and nonchalant. But inside I am scared and shy. I care too much what other people think. But no one realizes that I would even consider it. I seem very radical and unconcerned, but I am easily intimidated. And so I hate myself for being so false.

I am severely self-destructive, especially in love. I am fickle and indecisive. I do not understand myself and that is one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced. I question myself at all times, searching for answers that don�t exist. I keep journals and I write poetry, and I don�t even know what it�s all for. Who will read it and who will care.

I want only to escape. Every moment I want only to escape.

I claim to never have any time left for anything. I claim to always be busy. However, when I step back and evaluate my lifestyle, I find that very little of it is given to things that must be done. Most of my life is spent at things that some would call a waste of Time. Reading and Sleeping and Pondering are things that lazy crazy people do. But I busy myself with such things. And I have no Time left over for the things I should do, the things society claims are important. I will spend hours just thinking, just taking a mental breather, and I will scold myself, as society scolds me, for being wasteful. But in all seriousness, to me, such simple things as Dreaming and Wondering are most essential. I am never bored, and this is the beauty of my life. My mind is always spinning, and I do not wish to lie down.

But I cannot survive in a world of persecution, a world where I cannot be who I am, a world that leaves no time for Thinking. Will you let me be? I write you to request that you give me the right to exist. Because the world needs people like me, and I need people like me. But this world has given me no place but a mental institution to find solace.

-- Kasey P. Lindsay

Poetry.