There are only two things in the world I despise. One of which being spiders, the other my mother.

I once read a quote from scriptures saying, 'No man may serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other.' Such much be true for me.

The sweet chirping of the birds outside the window distracts me momentarily. The song rings out loud and clear. Not a care in the world those birds have. Always being able to go wherever they want, sing without fear or guilt, play above the ground in the grand trees. A world of their own. A world I envy. I'm the complete opposite of the carefree birds in the trees. As much as I long to sing, to be free, to play music endlessly, I know those are just childish fantasies. Thoughts to be pushed away and frowned upon.

Starting back up the task I'd previously begun, I try to pay no mind to the birds and their frivolous singing.

Out of all the chores in the house that I do, cleaning the fireplace is the worst. By the end of the job, your clothes are completely covered in ash and you smell of it too. But nevertheless, it must be done or else it will never.

Once I'm finished, I pause one more time to see if I can listen to the song of the birds again. But there is only the wind.

****

The sun's setting behind the trees by the time I put dinner in the oven. I have a knot in my stomach all the while.

"I hope she doesn't come up tonight. Maybe she'll stay downstairs. There's no need for her to come up tonight anyway."

But even with my reassurance, I decided to flee to my room and wait there until dinner is ready.

Sherbet waits on my covers where he always does. As childish as it is, Sherbet gives me comfort and I've had him as long as I can remember. It's a little embarrassing, though, to be comforted by a small, worn-out, stuffed lamb when you're 17 years old.

I catch myself. 

18. I'm 18 years old now-my birthday was last week. Something inside me jumps in excitement a little when I think about it. "I'm 18! I'm legally an adult. I can ask her now and she might reconsider it." I stop myself though. I was getting too worked up I wasn't thinking sensible. Of course, she'll still say no, why wouldn't she. Age doesn't matter to her. The only way I'll ever leave is when she dies and that could be the rest of my life. There'll be nothing left to live for.

I feel defeated when I think these thoughts. In fact, it depresses me to think such thoughts. Sighing, I fall back on my bed and look up at the ceiling. I painted stars above my bed to somewhat resemble the real thing, though I don't think it does it much justice.

The stars. That's another thing I want to see when I go out on my own. We have plenty of them here in the woods, but I've never seen them in a field where nothing blocks your view. To have something so close yet so far is almost like torture.

There are a number of sights I wish to see in my life. Things I've read about in books. Cities and oceans and mountains that touch the clouds and beyond. I want to see and experience different cultures and climates. Hear different languages be spoken rather than try to read them. I want to feel different emotions, too. Like, true love. I wonder what that's like? The stories I read describe it like fireworks like it's the best gift God has ever given to us, like it's something so rare and sacred- only to be felt once. Thinking about these things just make me all the more desperate to experience them.

I feel restless and antsy. I need something to calm myself with. My first thought is to the lone violin in the corner of my room. "No. You can't turn to that for comfort." The feeling is so bittersweet, it's as if the instrument has a luring aurora to it.

Holding the violin in a ready position I grip the bow and hover it above the strings. I silently dare myself to play to see what will happen. "Don't do it, don't do it. You know you can't. You know you won't." But some small part of me challenges this. "What if it doesn't happen? What if I can play and nobody gets hurt? Then what?"

I wait for a few seconds, but then set the bow and instrument down.

Even if I get away, even if travel and experience everything I want to, I'll never have what genuinely makes me happy. I'll always have something weighing me down. I'll never be able to have my music without thinking of what I've done or what I could do if I play it.

I sit on the edge of my bed and rub my eyes. Everything I've done will always be with me no matter what and that is the most defeating thought I could have.

The faint beeps of the kitchen timer catch my attention and I realize, as I hear movements downstairs, I shouldn't have turned on the timer.

"Dammit."