Entry One
January 30, 2008

Sitting on these railroad tracks are weirdly cleansing, but the sight is cold and bleak, and the atmosphere is dead. As I scan the horizon of the open desert, I see nothing, but the nothingness makes me feel that my privacy and emotions are even more secure. No more cries, no more screams, no more nosey mothers, and no more let down. These railroad tracks that I wait on lead my train of thought to that place of no despair, and the only way I can get to that place is if a train comes and ends my life. My thoughts always say, “Who am I in this world?” my awards say “I’m an overachiever”, and my trophies say “I’m accomplished,” but I can never believe any of that positive crap. As I see it, it was just all a mistake. Even though I did feel good getting all those awards, but none of that matters to anyone. Not my parents, not the kids at school, not even me. I am a waste of space. That’s who I am. I feel like I am a living piece of flesh that is sucking up all the air. My friend says that I shouldn’t think that way, but what does he know about my life? He doesn’t live it. The only thing that understands me, are these railroad tracks. The railroad tracks try to save my life by not letting trains pass through, but one day I’m going to make them give up on me and let the trains pass through, and send away to that place of no despair.









Entry Two
February 5, 2008



I’ve been told I’m a really depressing person, even when I don’t try to be depressed, but I guess that’s just who I am right now. When I came to know what the world is really like, and the complication of adapting to its weird ways, I knew that I would become this. A Beverly Hills rich boy who doesn’t feel like a rich boy, who has a father who buys his love, and a mom to be there for every move you make. I know what you’re thinking. You thinking, “Why is this “rich boy” so sad, he gets anything he wants, and two parents that are nothing but good to him. If I were him, I would love my parents, right along with life.” And I have to say to that is, you can have it! You can have my all work no play father; he forgets even my name every time I call him to just say hi. He just doesn’t break promises, but doesn’t even care you are the only kid he has, and that, that kid never had anyone to play with him. That’s probably is why I’m the way I am. Don’t forget that over protective mother. Your probably think all moms are like that, but does your mom call you pookie every time you’re in public, tell your business to anyone sitting next to her to start good conversation, or dress you in the ugliest penguin looking suit for those oh so special occasions with the family (who I also hate). My mom is a housewife, one of those wives whom…

“Emon come down stairs, dinner is ready!” my mom yells up the stairs.

“Okay!” I bellow down the stairs, “Her voice is so annoying.” I murmured.
It’s not that I don’t love her, I just don’t like her. She can just be overbearing at times. Wait no, make that all the time. So as I walk down the stairs, I try my best not to look my mom in the eye. Any eye contact would lead her to touch me. Why does she always have to touch me? Why?

“Come honey, set the table, your dad will be coming home soon.”
“Oh really, he’s actually coming home today, what persuaded him to come home to day, what is different from this day than any other?" or is his mistress just not doing it right anymore.” I say under my breath.
“What was that, pookie?” she says curiously.
“Oh nothing, just saying my thoughts out loud,” I say so cheesy, shout I could of won an Oscar for that performance, “like I would tell you, mother dearest.”
As I finish setting the table, I try to go as fast as I can, so I can just go back to my room. I use my peripheral to see if my mom was looking at me, and of course, she was. I see her just grinning, with her pearly whites all in alignment. I look at her very confused, for she looked like a baby doll: cute and harmless in the day, but when you turn the light off that face melts from the cast of the shadows, making her eyes pierce right through you. Me being me, I place down the last fork, and walk away slowly. Once I felt the railing on the stairs, I darted so fast my mom didn’t even notice.

Sometimes I feel bad for my mom; she waits night and day for my dad, and never shows a sign of emotion. One day she is going to go crazy, all of her bottle up emotions will come out all at once, and I’m not going to be their when it happens. At least I will try to. I can’t stand see my mom cry. My dad always lets her down. She knows that he is cheating on her with the neighbor next door.

It all started when dad offered to help Ms. Karen, the lady next door, with her bags, and didn’t come out the house until a few hours later. One time I stayed up late with my mom, because she needed someone to hold her hand at night, we were watching a scary movie, and she just happened to glance at the window and came to see my dad snatching off Ms. Karen’s clothes. I was disgusted, and my mom’s heart was broken, but she never showed it, or at least tried to. I wonder if my dad realizes how much mom loves him, because one day, she’s going to give him a taste of his own medicine. Like I said before, I don’t want to be there to see it.

Entry Three
February 7, 2008



Back at the railroads, and it feels good. With my journal in the palm if my right hand, and my pen between the tips of my fingers, I wonder why trains don’t pass through this area. It’s probably because of me. I would avoid me too. That’s a stupid way of thinking, but is it the right way. As the air passes through my scalp, my thoughts take a ride on the night air, and all I can think about is...

“Emon? Emon? Is that you? You got me worried sick.” My mom interrupted me, and my quiet time.

“No Emon isn’t here, now get off my land.” I say in a Jamacian accent.

“Emon stop playing I know that’s you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“It wasn’t hard I just followed the tracker I planted in your jeans, so come on, I need help cleaning the attic. You know I just can’t be letting you run off by yourself.” She says anxiously.

“You really put a tracker in my pants?” I asked curiously.

“Well yeah, now come on.”

“I’m not going.” I whispered.

“What was that?” she asked curiously.

“I said I not going, I can’t do anything without you sticking your nose in it.” I said frustrated.

“Emon Elijah Henderson, you do not speak to me in that tone.”

“Maria Rose Henderson, I can talk to you any way I want to.”

“What has gotten into you?”

“Your dishonesty, and the fact the you don’t care that your husband is cheating on you with the woman right next door. He is a DOG.” I tried to calm myself down, but then she slapped me across my face like a swing door coming back with great force.

“Don’t you ever talk about your father that way!" He is just keeping that nice lady company.”

“Oh yeah, while getting some on the same.”

“He would never.”

“Actually, he would, how can you not see that he is sleeping with another woman, tell me why he is not home keeping you company. Do you like being neglected?”

“Stop, stop talking.” She tries to say confusingly.

“Why do you not believe me, mom speak to me?”

“I ...I have go...” She ran back to the car a sped off, like a run away on COPS. I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t believe me. It’s a shame. I hate her, but she’s still my mom.