And in the morning there was nothing left

Compared to how much I stare at this, I actually write very little.  Weighing the pros and cons of saying what I want to say and trying to find my command of the English language somewhere behind the incessant buzzing take up a lot of my time. 

Summer is holding on desperately, even in its dying gasps it refuses to acknowledge its own end.  The sun sets a little earlier every night and rises a little later every morning.  The leaves have begun to change colours.  Another year older, another year wiser, another year to reflect back on and say, "it could have been better." 

Four months until my 19th birthday.  I’m getting too old for this.  For the angst and the drama, the confusion and uncertainty.  I’m not a child and I need to stop acting like one.  I always thought I’d grow out of this.

I tell myself there’s a reason for this.  That I want to do something with my life when I "grow up".  But I can’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, I’m wasting my time.  I know there has to be something better out there.  But I don’t know where.  And I don’t know what.

Fuck.