Young Southern Student Writers-Winners of 2013

Christopher Jenkins Grade 10 Notre Dame High School 2701 Vermont Ave. Chattanooga, TN 37404.

Ms. Wheeler

The Folly of Expectations

My joints creak like centuries old wooden floorboards as I stand. I am twenty-­‐three but some days I feel a thousand years old. The imaginary people inside the television incessantly laugh as I stare at the wall. I don't look in the mirror but I know what I look like: my eyes are hollows that occupy dark craters in my head. I am a sheet of frozen water, ready to shatter into a million flecks of snow.

Careful not to break, I shuffle to the kitchen where I eat even though my stomach has no need for fuel. I chase the various colorful vitamins with a swig of gasoline-­‐like coffee and return to my sorry excuse for an office. Thin, tenuous strings of morning light spill through the dark curtains. My desk lamp flickers on and off, teasing me with its bright light, until with a brilliant flash, it burns out like a star.

Just like the last 233 days, the void white space of the word document bores shamelessly into my skull. My mind is a peculiar mixture of chaotic scattered thoughts and nothing. I attempt a couple sentences which I quickly erase in frustration and embarrassment. I should be cranking out headline-­‐worthy articles for the paper, but the pressure is too great. About the second week of February, I was hit with a wave of crushing confusion and I've been here ever since.

Each day is a crumpled sheet of notebook paper tossed carelessly into the bin.

I am alive and sheltered due to the money of my parents whom I haven't spoken to in a year. My vocal chords are coated in rust due to lack of use; I only seldom converse with myself. I confine myself to this dimly-­‐lit apartment and only leave when supplies run dangerously low.

In January, I wrote an award winning article exposing how technology isolates us from the tangible world around us. The irony of this hits me like a slap in the face each morning. The pressure to live up to the expectations I have ignorantly bestowed upon myself makes my heart threaten to explode like a smashed bottle of wine. My thoughts stream like a river after a flood.

Soft notes of subdued music continuously flow through the speakers. A tired song, a wasted day. The now golden light tells me that it’s afternoon, but I look at the uncaring clock anyway which states that it’s 5:42. This apartment is breathing. Its heartbeat is getting louder, matching my own. I carefully open the windows, afraid of what they might let in. All that floats in is a stream of perfectly cool air; somewhere in the distance there is the gentle sound of soft laughter.

I decide to venture to the store where I catch an elderly woman staring at me with kind, sympathetic eyes. I try to imagine what she sees: an unkempt and odd young adult in faded jeans and an oversized sweater with eyes that convey both exhaustion and restlessness. I am supposed to portray the hope of our country; I 282