The Personal Chronicles of a Teenage Boy

Blankness

I've found an inner peace.

I say "an inner peace" not because I can have more than one inner peace, but rather because I believe inner peace comes in levels. I found not a true peace, but an acceptance of conflict, a subpeace.
Occasionally, I am visited by true peace. My mind goes blank. Not a single thought exists. At first, I was afriad of these moments. I would suddenly realize that my mind had been empty. It scared me to realize I had been alone.
But I began to accept these moments. I began to realize when they were happening quicker, taking only a few seconds to realize it, thus creating a thought and ruining my peace. I found a new perspective on my blankness. When I am there, I am in a world all of my own and no one can hurt me. I have a sanctity. I am at absolute peace. I imagine it is much like death, only in death, I doubt that blankness could ever be realized, for that would awaken the dead.
It has come to the point where my blankness, my peace, can almost come to me on command. Never would I hold myself there, however, because the mind can only trick itself into thinking it enjoys isolation for a short time. Blankness is sanctity and sanctity is peace and peace is undisturbed and that which is undisturbed is alone and that which is alone is isolated and that which is isolated is imprisoned within itself and that which is imprisoned within itself has the value of that which is nonexistent. And so I cannot hide in peace, for that would make me worthless. And I cannot hide in peace, for that would be running away, and I refuse to run any more. I choose to face my fears. I can't run away.

And one fear that I have is imperfection. I have always been taught to do the greatest job possible, always to be as close to perfect as possible, and somehow, I managed to twist those words. I heard not, "Attempt perfection," but rather, "Be perfection." But now my perspective had changed. I realize now that perfection is not something I can never reach.
Firstly, perfection is an opinion. Every person has his own view of perfection; every person has his own perspective. I can only be true to my own.
Secondly, perfection is an ideal scenario. Ideal scenarios are impossible to gain because if the world had those, people would be truly happy. True, pure happiness can never be achieved in life, as pure happiness leads to pure peace, and when the heart is truly, purely at peace, there is no further purpose of life.

And so I must face my fear and come to terms with the realization that this journal will not have a perfect ending.
In the skeleton outline of my book, I have approximately three endings. It was from my fear of a flawed ending and from my desire for perfection that I created them. Each is "perfect" in its own way, but none of them could ever be completely, truly perfect.
In case you haven't been able to understand my cryptic message thus far, I'll tell you plainly. In all likelihood, this will be my last journal entry.
I have reached subpeace, and that is all any mortal can ever achieve. The path has been trekked, the barriers have been broken, and the wanderer has found his way. In this journal, I have chronicled my grievances, but I am beginning to find a lack. I tried to strech out my journal, tried writing about anything over the past few days, but I found nothing to write. Until I find a new path to trek, a new barrier to break, a new way to find, I may not have any grievances to write. When I finish writing the flesh to my book, I may no longer have a dilemma from which to form insight.
I still plan to continue to write. Although my subpeace drew from my creativity energy at first, I have begun to regain it as I have learned to accept subpeace. I still am capable of creating masterpieces, at least from my perspective; however, this journal entry, this sorrow, may be my last. I simply don't know.
I don't know what the future will bring. Trekking my path has brought me to a field. It is a field of violence in which there are people who carry large, dull blades and are willing to cut each other for trivial gains. They run through this field, slicing randomly at all those who dare step in front of them. I walk through this meadow, crossing through life, and as I go, I am attacked, but I do not run away, not any more. I hold steady, and as they have in recent days and as I hope they will for some time to come, the blades pass through me harmlessly and move on to their next victim or break on the surface of my skin and fall to the ground in splinters.
I do not know how long my peace can preserve itself before someone cuts me, before I am given a gash. I expect that some day I will be hurt again, and I will turn to myself for help. Until then, however, I believe I am invincible from these wounds, and will have nothing to report. And so my journal, in all likelihood, will end, though there is a possibility that it will not, and its ending will be imperfect.