White Noise

If my mind were a room, I imagine a circular, wooden structure with green vines drooping the walls, and dangling from the ceiling. Oversized windows would allow the raw sunlight to brighten the room. The only furniture would be a large, low bed, grand desk, and an unnecessarily large chair simply for reading on. Majority of the wall space will be covered by vast bookshelves, stacked with a variety of classic and contemporary literature. Several tapestries would also drape the walls, offering the room a sense of comfort. Multiple pillows would scatter the floor, though in an orderly fashion. The room would be illuminated and airy by day, but dark and desolate by night - with only the moonlight offering brightness. However, beyond all this would be a black, ancient door; feared to be opened.

That’s not real. Realistically, I harbour in a small, dull four-walled room with a basic window, with clutter that reflects my many personalities. Clutter such as sixty-seven paperback books, a basket of art supplies, eight football trophies, and my green book - I shouldn’t think about that when I don’t have to. So the opposite of tranquil or orderly. These blank walls offer no scope for the imagination. Therefore, due to this uneventful life, I use my thoughts to feel purpose. Is it considered conversing with myself if I’m not talking? But I am. To whom? To me? I wonder if everyone has similar thoughts. No, I don’t think so, otherwise everyone on this planet would descend into madness. Like how I feel. The more I think, the more I feel detached, slowly driving myself into a cave of solitude and insanity, worsening my social skills even further. What do I care? Insanity is fascinating. I consider myself insane, and I don’t mind so, in fact, I want to be. My thoughts are much more interesting than a mundane human rambling on about a useless matter. Insanity is my escape from the structure of society, the only way I feel I am not being controlled by minutes, hours, days, weeks, school, family. None of such has any real importance to me, so why base my life around any of them? From the outside, I am just a sixteen year old, attending a local college, with the given name Emerson. What a pathetic, though accurate, name. Emerson. Emerse. Immerse. I am an immersive person. I read, and that’s one of the most immersive experiences one could have. I also immerse myself in the study of character, I watch individuals, and come to my own conclusions of why they are who they are. I enjoy this. Some might argue it’s a power thing, and I agree. By dissecting a person based on their personality, I am able to decide things about them that I doubt they even know about themselves. Like, does he really thrive in attention, or secretly insecure? Is she quiet because she’s simply introverted, or is she dreaming of a twisted fantasy? I like her. I know. I know all of you, better than you. Therefore, I hold the power. Wow. I am definitely aware of the confusion my thoughts can bring on, if only I were to tell my thoughts, or if you were to read them. That would be fun. To read my thoughts. In society, a reader is automatically assumed to be a writer also. I wish that were true. I read constantly, so why do I have a lack of talent when it comes to writing? One of my greatest ambitions is to be a famous author, with future generations studying my books, but I cannot write. I try, then become far too stressed for my liking, then quit. I will stick to reading for now.

How am I being dragged to this pointless trip tomorrow? As if I’m not capable of looking after myself. She’s far too controlling for my standards. Mother’s need to learn to not drag their children into their own messes. By immersing myself into the situation my mother has with a past relationship, she is dragging us to a caravan holiday park in order to escape the messes she formed herself. She disguises her motive as a “holiday”, but I can see she’s running away from her problems. The modern generation may use the phrase “playing the victim” to explain this. This is going to be pure torture, stuck in a cramped caravan with five small siblings and mother. Fuck that. I’ll do what I always resort to in these situations, dive into my bizzare imagination. I’ll use my thoughts to distract me from reality.

Right, seriously I need to sleep now. It’s 2:36 AM, I’ve been laying here, in my bed, for four hours just thinking. Overthink is the term for this I’m sure. Why is the term ‘overthinking’ so commonly considered a mental weakness? I see it as a strength. Personally I believe, wait, no. I can not go off on another train of thought - my sleeping pattern is bad enough as it is. I just need to think of nothing. Blank space. Just blank. Blank.

This isn’t working, what is that static noise in my head? It’s like tons of dry rice being bored into an empty bathtub. How do I cut that out? It’s impossible to even attempt rest with this infuriating noise playing in the back of my mind. So many people voluntarily listen to similar sounds I’m hearing to help them sleep, white noise it’s called. How ironic. So normal people listen to the same music I hear to encourage sleep, while I’m here fighting the urge to gauge my own eyes out because of it. I hate it. Is it in my head? Or in real-life? I’ll just listen to the sickening sound then, if I can’t stop it. Just listen. Listen.

What do I bring? I’ve been told to pack a bag for this so-called trip without being told how long we’ll be there. I guess I’ll just bring a few sets of clothes and a towel, but which book. I’ve been meaning to finish Jekyll and Hyde, I’ll bring that one. I need to prepare myself for this car journey, three hours in a cramped car with four under ten year olds. My own personal hell. At least I’m able to bring my dog - the only living thing I care for, she’ll save me on this trip. As if I’d leave her behind.

An hour in and I’m sweating with anger. Literally, not figuratively. I’m having to clench my jaw to stop myself screaming, my clothes are irritating my skin; it feels as though there’s a million baby spiders crawling all over my body. This is literal torture. Andromeda is the only reason I’m not throwing myself out of this car. God that’s sad. A clueless chihuahua is the only reason I haven’t completely lost my mind. I'm pathetic.

Two hours in. Feels like a decade. The darkness of the night offers some soothing, until the children bring me back to reality. Why are they so irritating? I swear to myself to never have a child. Besides the irritation, why would I want to bring an innocent baby into a world like this one? My body is aching, in pain and desire to get out of this stuffy car. The view of the outside reminds me I need to explore more of the world; give myself a wider array of wills to live. Instead I’m headed to a run-down caravan with nowhere interesting to go. I could run away with Andro. Get away from the burden of family, and experience a solitary life - like I’ve always wanted. Peace, just peace. With the exception of screaming children, late night car rides are quite enjoyable. I can think more clearly while staring out to the endless scenes of nature, and the occasional glare of a cars’ headlights.

A minute away from the summer-house mansion. How exciting.

This is truly the worst possible situation I could be in. So the caravan, if it can even be considered such, has two rooms and a pull-out sofa - unideal for four children, three teenage cousins, and two, rather childish, adults. I hate job interviews; the awkwardness makes me want to crawl up into a ball in the corner of a dark room. Well tonight it seems that will be reality. So if the children are on the sofa-bed, the cousins in the small bedroom, the adults in the main bedroom, where does that leave me? The shower? There is the corner of the sofa that doesn’t pull out, seems like the option.

I despise a lack of privacy. My desperate attempts to distract myself with my thoughts from the irritating noises of children sleeping are failing me.