Xander wandered into the bedroom he shared with Alec, closed the door, and sat on his bed. Alec's side of the room was shockingly neat and tidy considering the absolute tornado his brother was, and while Xander's side did not achieve the same level of tidy, he felt it was clean enough. It felt lived-in. Alec's bedding was pulled tight and crisp. His was rumpled but pulled into the right positioning, more or less. His books were on the shelf based on how they fit. Alec had arranged his small library by color with a seperate section dedicated to library books arranged in order of when they needed to be returned. Xander had loads of open book shelf space, and Alec had none. Not even a bit of wiggle room. Of course, the tidiness of the room did not account for the closet and wardrobe that stayed firmly shut. They had finally agreed on how to paint the room, coloring all of the walls a medium blue with an arching rainbow. Xander had stuck a picture of a horse at his end of the rainbow, and Alec had carefully painted a cloud with a silver outline on his. They had a few nicknacks and toys here and there, and Xander's snake chilled across his bed, and all in all, it was a surprisingly warm and welcoming room. It was a strange thing to sit down and actually appreciate that.
He went to his desk and retrieved his notebook, returning to sit on his bed, leaning against the wall with the notebook propped against his knees. He opened it and flipped through the first couple of pages, looking at the random notations written there. Most were things like, "Felt angry. Don't know why. Maybe need snack." Or, "Feeling restless. Dunno why. Want things to do." "Don't know why" was a common phrase amongst the scribbled drawings. There was no attempt to actually dig into any kind of depth with these notes. Just comments. He hesitated a moment, then picked up his pen, and turned to a new page.
Writing this is weird and awkward, and if anyone ever does read it, I'll jump in front of a bus. But it's for me, and no one should ever read it, so I guess I should take is seriously. I'm supposed to be writing in this to help me better understand my feelings, especially my anger, but it feels silly. I guess I can be honest with myself or this book or whatever. It feels like I'm talking to myself in a way that wastes even more time than just talking. I could be doing other stuff instead. I mean, how are you even supposed to write about feelings without sounding like a whiny little emo girl from some old kid's movie? It's just feelings. But I guess being negative isn't helping. It's a bad habit of mine, I guess. It's easier to be negative. I am working on it. Just most of the time, I almost feel like I'm doing a whole out-of-body thing and watching myself do stuff and I hate the person I see. Not as much now as I used to, but why can't this jerk be a better person? Why does he always have to make the choice that makes other people feel bad even when he's trying to help? I guess everyone has problems and issues they gotta work through, but me? I watch myself get stuck on the same friggin rut over and over and over again. It sucks, and I feel like I'm getting left behind even when I'm not sure what I'm being behind in. Life, I guess. Growth? I dunno. All I know is I watch myself get stuck, and other people tell me I'm doing better, but to me, it looks like the exact same problem as before just wearing a different costume, and I look at myself stuck there and think, Why won't you move, you idiot?! Why do you have to be like this? Why do you have to be stuck on the same issue? Why can't you even let someone touch you or touch them when that's all they want? Why can't you be a different person than you are?
Xander stopped and stared at the page. He took a shaky breath and closed the journal. Maybe that was why he was supposed to right out what he felt. It made him actually feel what he wanted to feel and think about it. He rubbed his damp cheeks roughly. He didn't think he liked it. Feels really hurt.
