I cried to sleep last night.

Several minutes before 8 AM today, my roommates began making the upmost noise. How evil of them. Jennifer, in her usual hyper state, gabbed about her midterm later today. Then suddenly, after squeezing my eyes for awhile, the room was quiet. The room to myself once again!
I dragged myself to the room three doors down. In the mirror, somehow my eyes looked torn like I had stayed up all night. What an unlikely instance.
When I returned, I saw my screensaver was running. Meaningless photos appearing and reappearing. Although it brightened me up for a moment, I quickly moved the mouse to make everything vanish.
Stacy bombarded into my room. She was desperate for a printer. I sacrificed my new ink cartidge to print her five pages of some document. I realized that I needed Microsoft Word. Nevertheless, I clicked several buttons and Stacy's desperation eased.

Take a step back. My evil aunt Minerva gave me a diary when I was in the seventh grade. Back then, I considered diaries a superficial book of horrors. Although I was still a writer then, I believed that a diary would bring too much trouble and that it was a worthless habit. However, nearly six years later, that diary, although barely a quarter-filled, is one of the precious items in my existence. I don't have it with me in the dorm. Yet, I have this. I have no reason to lock up what I write. Yet it's HERE.

Somehow I am here. Not there. Not over there. But here. Here of all places. I believe that each person has taken a path. A path that is created by the experiences of life. Yet some paths are different from each other. Of all paths that I could have taken, I took the one less travelled and the thorns gnaw at me.