A curtain opens to a large crowd.

They don't laugh. They don't gasp. They don't react.

A hush.

I don't want to do this anymore.

This is my nightmare.

The nightmare is not the bad response, but the idea of not wanting it anymore. The art. The meaning.

The only way to do what I want to do with my life is by having people like it. Not my family. Not my close friends. But real people. Regular people. This applies to every part of my life.

This is how I write a typical article:

What do people care about?

*scrolls through every social media known to man*

Ah! People care about politics, but that's annoying. People would scroll right past that. No. People care about current events. No they don't. They care about things that apply to them. People care about what will affect them.

How old is that dog that botax-ridden, slutty Reba will inevitably talk about at the next high school reunion?

What happened in Syria that Uncle Reece will make a tacky, racist comment about at church next Sunday?

Who responded to the Christmas party RSVP that could potentially ask about my life plans and what the purpose of an arts degree is?

So what am I left to talk about? I don't have the answers to any of those questions. I am nothing but an ignorant, angsty teen that abuses attention when it is given to me. The only articles that anyone cares about are the honest ones. Me talking about things that happen in life that have meaning.

I suppose sometimes I lose sight of that. Honesty. I miss that sometimes when I think. Getting wrapped up in things that ultimately don't matter force me to make decisions that benefit me immediately rather than everyone around me for the rest of their life. It forces me to not care about honesty.

It's like cellphones. When we feel alone, we just pull them out really fast and scroll through the same tweets over and over again until our eyes bleed. And we do this cause we don't want to think? I have so many thoughts! Everyone does! Why am I not talking about any of those? There are so many questions to be asked.

What happens when we die?

Why do rich people hate talking about their money?

Why does botax-ridden, slutty Reba even bother going to the reunions anymore?

The only interesting art is the honest kind. There is no point in making any other kind.