I guess I shouldn’t really call them “problems”, even though they are problematic. They are the inconveniences of a white teenage girl, barely hardened by life, still blinking in the light of the sun.

They aren’t real problems, the struggle isn’t truly real, at least not for me.

The things I call problems are so small compared to the big world that is spinning around in orbit like a giant knot of problems. They are so small compared to God. They are so small compared to, well, real problems.

My problems are the fact that all I ever want to do is create things but I have a perma-creation block.

They are that I write verses to songs that I can’t find choruses for and choruses for songs to which no verses can be found

They are the fact that my room is a little too cold or too hot, and never just warm enough.

I make characters without stories, I paint without an initial sketch, which, believes me, rarely turns out well.

My problems are that I always end up adding too much salt to my popcorn.

My problems are that I always seek approval from everyone I’m around, but I’m too insecure to accept the approval when I get it.

My problems are that I am always complaining about how tired I am, but I’m never tired when I lay to sleep.

My problems are that I want to be vulnerable with my friends/family, but vulnerability on my part feels so much like complaining.

My problem is that I never have been fully hydrated in my life

My problem is that I crave people’s comfort but always lock myself in the bathroom when I cry.

My problem is myself and nothing else and I don’t know how to fix it.