Watching "Shutter Island" actually made me question my own sanity for a while. I feel like after seeing that movie, I've become slightly insane. Just thinking about it will probably keep me awake tonight.

Today, I did the unthinkable. I googled "blog topics."

I know, I know. I'm a terrible person. There are a lot of things I considered blogging about. Michael Jackson, a book I'm reading, shopping. They all got scratched off the list. I even thought about Mr. Ontiveros. I mean, let's face it. That subject is so painfully taboo that I even felt a twinge of guilt when I read that 'sexting' article today. That would have been so much fun to write about. But I just couldn't do it.

I guess honesty beats originality, right? I hope so. Because today, all I can say is that I'm so depressingly unoriginal that it hurts. Half the things I say, I heard somewhere else. In a way, I guess we're all like that. Honestly, tell me one joke that you came up with all by yourself. Can't think of one, can you? If you could, it probably wouldn't be that funny. If it was, congratulations. You're one of the lucky few whose words other people will take credit for when they can't think of anything original to say.

This is the only outlet that I have to be completely honest. Somehow, even with the internet at my disposal, I never feel the need to use it to make myself sound better or funnier or smarter than I am. If you want to know what I really think, tell me to write it down. Better yet, tell me to blog about it.

In history, we're watching a documentary about Czar Nicholas II of Russia.

He was married to a lady named Alexandra. She was so beautiful. For some reason or another, one picture of them has been on my mind for a couple of days now. Their children are playing with each other in the courtyard, and at the right hand side, you can see Nicholas and Alexandra sharing the most passionate kiss I have ever seen in my life.

There they are, completely oblivious to everything around them, completely oblivious to the fact that their empire is crumbling. They've been married for years. And yet, they look like it's their first kiss. It's almost as if they've been searching for each other for an eternity, and finally have found each other at that exact moment. But that wasn't the case at all. They had known each other practically their entire lives. By looking at that one picture, anyone could tell how much they loved each other.

In the notes they wrote to each other throughout their lives, they wrote in the most beautiful prose.

December 30, 1915

Off you go again alone and its with a very heavy heart I part from you. No more kisses and tender caresses for ever so long -- I want to bury myself in you, hold you tight in my arms, make you feel the intense love of mine.

They loved each other until the day they died. And when they were murdered and buried with their children in that shallow grave, I think that kind of love died with them.

Do you ever get the feeling that someone's watching you? I do.

Not in a scary way. It's like I'll be doing something completely mundane like making my bed or pouring my cereal, and suddenly it occurs to me that someone, somewhere, has the ability to see exactly what I'm doing at any given moment. So I straighten up my posture, nonchalantly fix my hair, and pretend like I'm much more graceful than I actually am.

That feeling hit me this morning, just as I was waking up. I sat up, looked in the mirror, and laid back down in a way that made me look as thin and effortless as possible. (Ironic, right?) I then proceeded to trace the flowers on my duvet with my fingers and gaze shallowly out the window next to me. In a way, it's a horrible feeling. Like you're held together by invisible strings, being controlled by that someone who's watching you. Or like you're trapped by your own need to appear perfect.

But once it faded, as most feelings do, I began to actually notice how pretty those morning glories look outside my window. And it felt peaceful.

I realized today how much I miss writing. I miss the thrill of spying on myself and reporting my findings back to this silly little blog for the world, or maybe just my class, to see. I miss the way it feels when someone quotes my words, deliberately or not. I miss the long, meaningless stares that I exchange with a misspelled word, as I decide whether or not it's right, and whether or not I care.

I miss the way I kick myself inside when I realize that I use anaphora far too often for it to be effective anymore.

Sometimes, I think I might like to write a book. Then, I write the first page, conclude that it is total crap, and return to being a normal teenager whose writing experience does not surpass essays and the occasional news article. But maybe someday.

First, I have plenty of other things to worry about. Like finding a favorite author. I'll admit, I don't read nearly as much as I pretend to. I've told people before that my favorite books include Utopia and Lost Horizon. I'll let you in on a secret: I tapped out after 30 pages on both of them. But they sound mysterious and sophisticated, so I doubt that I'll actually remove them from my "favorite books" list on Facebook.