It’s strange to be young. I was little and then all of a sudden I had to clean my room by myself, do my own laundry. I got my first bank card, my first summer job, went to the doctor alone and called to order food alone. I also traveled alone, first by bus and then the first independent flight, I saved and spent my money. In a few years I will move out and have my first full-time job, buy my own groceries and pay my own bills. Somewhere between a stuffed toy and paying bills, I am a young person. I am trapped between the world of adults and children and I don’t belong to either. I’m not responsible enough, so the elders don’t take me seriously. I’m not even small, I can’t be childish and immature. Just as I don’t fit into any age, I don’t fit into any crowd. I’m not a geek, I’m not overly popular, I’m not a “in a sect” nor a “rich girl” nor a “pretty girl”, but I have to be something. I need to belong somewhere, but I don’t like it anywhere. It is easier to go through life if you belong, if you are marked. If you belong, then you exist, if not, then you are like some relative term without any significance. At school, decide on one subject that suits you, decide which social circle and type of people you belong to, mark your sexuality, style, music and put a label on yourself. People give me comfort. The same ones, the marked people. Over time, some labels come off, some take it off themselves, some never wanted them. Everyone has their own story. On Saturday evenings we sit on the beach together, look at the sky and talk about it.