They will always think of you as a hat, not a boa constrictor eating an elephant.
So you are this girl who stays up late at night and ponders a lot about what will happen when the first ray of sunlight falls on your face, when your day officially starts as a restless college punk. Instead of getting some rest you either attempt to break your eardrums with the loud rock music from your iPod or reread the best bits of the book you last finished, the ones with the words that never fail to strike a chord with you when you let your eyes roam over them. Instead of going to dreamland--oh, remember that wondrous place you love--you sit up on a corner of your upper bunk and bob your head to Arctic Monkeys and Pinkfloyd and My Chemical Romance and Panic at the Disco and Fyleaf and Incubus.
Sometimes, when you feel like screaming--but you can't, because it will wake up everyone within the four corners of your little world--you snatch your sketchpad from under the piles of newspapers and books; then you draw, sometimes angrily, sometimes thoughtlessly, sometimes somberly. You tried to remember the last time you draw something when you're happy. You failed.
Sometimes you wish the night will last forever. Sometimes you can't wait to see the sun.
Either way, it doesn't change who you are when everyone else is asleep. Have you ever felt like a prisoner who's free to go wherever she wants? Always. So you grasp your crayons and permanent markers, doodles on your bedroom wall (because, you know, the regular prisoner does that) and thinks that maybe this is it. Maybe you're meant to be just caged in the situation where you are now. When other eyes will see those drawings, they'll lick at you with candy-flavored tongues, but what can they see? Nothing but the intricate lines and curves and colors; they can't know what drives you to create them if they can't go past the superficial value of it. And that only reminds you how alone you will be.
You drown yourself in music. You drown yourself in the worlds that spring from the pages of your books. You drown yourself in the lands you create with your writing, your doodles, your imagination. When prying ears and eyes shoot direct at you, they won't understand, because everything that will run in their minds is all about "how boring can that be?" and "how can she do that?" And you don't care, because the instruction manual that you have in your head says they won't understand. Some will try to, just so they can say they know what you're going through. But how can they? Sometimes you can't understand yourself. You let them think what they want to think, because...that's how they roll.
So what you did is let those fingertips dance on your keyboard, because what did they say--the best way to keep your secrets is to broadcast it to the world? Ha-ha (and here's the part where you wish there's a font for sarcasm). And you know that is the way of attention-seekers, telling the world to leave them alone (freaking ironic and you don't understand, but you try it anyway because maybe, JUST MAYBE, it works). So here's your crappy blog, your outlet of emotions, the subwoofers for your thoughts. You don't care if somebody else reads this and you don't care if somebody finally knows your thoughts. What you care about is you need this out.
There. You have those words finally out.
Last step? Surrender to your Father because even before you type everything here, He knows what you feel.
And for whatever mystery, when you type that last step...you feel free. :')