This Is Not My Home

Last night I felt the need to pray for the first time in months. I thought I was regaining my footing on this world. I was wrong. The rate I'm going, I'll lose all my friends and probably get kicked out of school. Not that I'll care very much. It's a hellhole, like the rest of this town. I can't wait to get out. And when I do, I'll go to London, get a flat, and not come back. Get a job, learn to cook, get my life onto a track that makes sense. Get myself a real life that I can live properly, instead of living in a fantasy world. Somewhere I can write half the night night and sleep half the day, and I can do my weird artwork on my own without worrying what people are thinking about me. If I can be who I want to be, wearing my odd clothes without getting a second look, and not having whoever happens to be walking behind me on the way home taking the piss every day. Just little things that are wrong with my life that build up and become unbearable. If I could get away, maybe that would change. I live exactly a hundred miles from London. I've never made the journey without an adult. When I turn sixteen, I'm planning to go alone, or with a friend. And when I finish school when I'm eighteen, I'll go to London, and I'll stay there. I hate this town. I just want to get out.