Although I have plenty of other things to worry about right now, I can't help but wake up in a cold sweat every once in a while hoping everything is well with everyone that has made themselves out of my reach. In this world I have never been very sure of what is going to me, but I have grown accustomed to knowing what will become of my friends. Whenever this knowledge is lacking I grow very worrisome. It is strange that I should care so little to throw myself into the unknown, but I grow apprehensive whenever the people around me do just that.

Today I have done my best to engross myself in studies and tech gadgetry, but it proves useless. Lingering in the back of my mind, like a throbbing headache, is the question of what I can do to reach those few lost souls. How the soul pulses and throbs when it is deprived of the once bi-weekly conversations and reassurances. How easy it is to become engrossed in your own mental illness when just down the street is another whose illness places him miles beyond your reach.

I yearn to write infinite prose explicating my headspace, but lack the capacity to do so. My fingers belie the fact that my mind is incapable of spewing out its own inner substance onto either paper or screen.