The day had begun with no particular goal in mind, I had woken up with no thoughts whatsoever; however, the moment I realised that I had woken up, the first thought that pondered my mind was A—. I felt alone, a great sense of solitude; I knew I was suffering, however I didn't try to resist this suffering. I was hungry and I was thirsty, I needed to take a shower and go to the restroom. However, I didn't move a muscle, I laid there flat, looked at the ceiling, and sometimes moved my head up to look out of the window. My mother, concerned by my illness, came to ask about where I was the previous night and why I looked so pale; however, I avoided her question, let alone look at her, and continued to lay flat without moving and emotionless.
I don't have a job and I have been living off my parents' money. I live off because they pay my expenses, and why don't I get a job? I don't know… I believe I am not suitable to be working and I am too ill to go outside anyway. Even as of now my body aches to a point I cannot even get out of my head. "Aren't you hungry?" my mother yelled and proceeded to come inside my room yet again with a plate of bread and a glass of water. "I am not hungry," I said hastily, in a hostile voice. My mother, clearly upset, rushed over to me and put her hands on my forehead to check my temperature. That, however, enraged me and I quickly knocked her hands away and told her to leave immediately. She got even madder and started yelling at me, "What is even wrong with you? I have told you that if you are—then go to doctors and if you cannot bring yourse—" "Can you shut up?" I yelled. My mum gasped, upset and disappointed though not surprised, gave me a fierce look, and walked away, leaving the food behind. I lifted my head to look at the food just to gag, and lay down yet again.
I do not wish to get a job as I believe something has been awaiting me, that the countless hours I have spent writing, singing, and dreaming would finally award me for my hardships. I believe that the sole reason I am delirious and ill is to give the antidote of familiarity to people that are like me. I mean, which author hasn't suffered? There will always be suffering in living. I remember someone saying, however I cannot recall who, "To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering." My meaning and my purpose behind this tragic life is to be the longing messiah of new‑generation people: to open their eyes and give people a taste of my ideals. And if I am unable to accomplish that, was there a point to my existence? I got carried away and I was actually giggling a bit, excitedly thinking about it—being a writer, gaining publicity; however, the delusion came crashing down pretty soon as soon as the thought of A— wandered my mind yet again. I thought again about if I were to be with A— in the future, I wouldn't want to be public, though—that would ruin the peaceful imagery of a perfect relationship dynamic if either one of us were too rich or famous. I cannot be a writer, can I? I started laughing to myself like a maniac and said, "Me, writer? Ha ha, never. What has writing brought me? Nothing but misery. And why should I go on to write melancholic stories like a depressed, hopeless romantic?"
What will come of my life? I wondered. I laid there flat, trying my best to make peace out of the given moment; however, my illness (in mind) was too great and I couldn't lay straight. My body ached even more and thoughts clouded my head yet again, giving me a headache. I got up to sit and grab a mirror nearby—my eyes were puffy and my skin had broken out. I felt as if my face were getting distorted and I couldn't bear to look at myself. I threw the mirror away and it broke, making a loud noise. My mother rushed in yet again, yelling at me, but ignoring her I finally got up and started to get dressed without brushing, bathing, or anything. I glanced at A—'s coat that lay next to my bed. I grabbed it out of spite, wishing to burn it away; however, I grabbed it and wore it.
Another wonderful morning with the sun rising as always—such a wonderful way to begin the day, isn't it? What does a man do when he begins the day? What are the first thoughts that are about to wander through his mind? Well, well… those thoughts cannot simply be put into words, can they? Some may sour their mind with worry or sorrows, and some may smile with a sweet, fragrant face. What is life? What is the job? To people who work like slaves pretending everything is fine—isn't it so depressing? Yet there is nothing a man can do to break off.
I was heading out to the library to meet my friends. Though today was not a holiday, we had planned earlier to take a day off and to talk somewhere. I had planned not to go anyway; however, I decided to change my mind as I needed somewhere and someone to rant about the tragic incident that had happened yesterday. Well, it is quite selfish of me to meet them only when I seek something; however, it is not as if I hadn't been inside my situation anyway. And I am empathic and wise enough to know when to actually be there for them, so I do not have anything to feel guilty over. Besides, if they are unwilling to understand me or not hear me when I need someone to hear me, are they even real friends? And if they prove themselves to be unworthy—such a waste, isn't it? That they are going to be gone one day, never to be seen again. But I do feel empty about it, but I do not feel sad. I don't know what is wrong with me, but I cannot seem to care for people whom I cannot interpret with my writing or intertwine with the unknown future or radiant stars. On the other hand, though, my love A—, oh tell me my love, no one matters to me as anyone else and you are the one who abandoned me. Is writing about our failed love all I will ever do? And will we ever get the moments I had planned out? Who will view the stars with me? Who will kiss me like you do? Who will smile like you do? I frowned and felt puzzled by my thinking, which impacted the pace of my walk; my eyes were teary and I was feeling tired. My eyes felt as if they needed to be closed immediately and I needed a place to rest again; however, I didn't want to be late. My body and head still ached; however, I had learned to adapt to it by this point, as this cycle isn't a surprise and I am aware that the ill feeling of my body will go away soon if not my mind.
Oh, look, hey—such beautiful weather, isn't it? I can see the sun right behind me shining on my whole body, and as for my shadow, it stands right before me. It's such a nice sight, isn't it? My shadow looks larger at times and shorter at others. As far as I know, the closer you are to a light source, the larger your shadow. But what does this information even bring us? Literally nothing. No purpose, nothing—then why even talk about it? You answer me: if I have no other thing to do, then what would I do? Let's say you are at an appointment with your parents and there is nothing to accompany you. What do you do? Look around everywhere; probably bite your nail? Play with your hair? Count random things? Think of random stuff? A lack of purpose? Perhaps, with enough time, you will also get frustrated. I mean, who can keep doing nothing, waiting for nothing for too long, and all there is to accompany you are the most random things you do that have no way to benefit you? Think of it as the same. I have no particular goals or desires; all I can do when I walk outside is look around and pay attention to the most useless stuff, as it's a way to seek comfort in this utter and useless existence of mine.
Wait after wait and after wait. Imagine each day you go to an appointment, a place where you have no wish to be yet you have to—you are forced to. Personally, I am glad I am not in a situation like that (or I hope so), but I am sure if I were in a situation like that long enough, I would definitely consider doing something that makes having to wait end once and for all—and I am not speaking for me. I am sure any of you dear readers would consider the same. Well, do not feel alone, as there are millions of people who, when put in the same situation as you, will be equally as miserable and consider committing worse stuff. So why not share this brief moment of solace with each other in hopes of filling the gap we all feel? You see, I was supposed to be at my home right now, but I chose a longer path to reach home as I can use my time to write. But why? Why am I writing in the middle of winter outside with wind blowing all over me? What is the point of catching a cold and writing with frozen hands? Why don't I let my poor limbs rest a bit under some warmth? Well, tell me: let's use the previous example. The doctor's appointment—let's say the doctor's appointment was held in the most luxurious and high‑class place this world has to offer. Rather odd for a hospital, isn't it? Well, that is certainly not the point. You see, it doesn't matter how much value something or someone has if it has no purpose. For such an existence, it is better to not exist at all. In my house, surrounded by four‑cornered brick walls with no view to see—what will I even do? I do not have a purpose in my house, do I? At least even if it hurts me physically being outside, I can find some companionship in the beauty of this world. Perhaps the sun shining on me—I can take it as a sun kiss. My shadow walking along with me—I can imagine it to be my only friend; no matter where I go, it will follow.
There are so many cars running around me, creating noise pollution. Oh God, would I hate it if I were doing something important, if I had something to do. If I was protecting something I valued—perhaps my peace? But what is there to protect? Isn't protecting my peace like protecting a locker full of gold? Except I know there is no gold there to back the name up, just an empty locker. I can be delusional and pretend something is inside, but all I know is that what is going to happen is me being disappointed for setting expectations of something I know isn't real to begin with. Well, does it matter if it brings me temporary peace? I do not see myself getting any in the future anyway. I can pretend that, well, I do have a purpose, though deep down I know that is not what I even remotely come close to seeking—but I have to pretend, right? To not look to others. Pleasing others and looking appealing to others is the biggest goal of every person, isn't it? No matter how much someone tries to deny it, no matter how much someone tries saying they are living or doing something for themselves, somewhere, even the slightest part of them is seeking validation from others. Even the smallest gesture or mark of words can trigger that, thus changing them in a day. The power of words and thoughts is beyond your and my comprehension, though I think I have some understanding of it.
Being off‑paced by the clouds of my thoughts, I accidentally bumped into a light pole and fell down. My head was injured; however, there was no bleeding. Seeing my misfortune, a girl nearby rushed to help me. Though I didn't require any help and I could have set off on my path, if I were to get some free attention from the opposite gender, why would a man like me deny it? I had not known her, I hadn't talked to her; however, seeing her concern, her will to talk with me, and her face was enough for me to create a vivid imagery of what if, by a miracle, she decided to stick around and surpass the memories of my past lovers who had discarded me?
"Are you okay?" she said in a panic, trying to help me to stand up.
I groaned a bit and said, "I am alright, thanks for your concern."
"I am glad—tell me if you need help," she smiled.
While I didn't need any help, I didn't wish to simply let go of her so easily. The idea of meeting my friends had completely slipped away, and I couldn't help but focus on observing her appearance and characteristics. She had average‑length, dirty‑blonde hair; she wasn't necessarily attractive, however I could see a certain uniqueness in her appearance. Her figure was slim and curvy. My sophisticated brain almost started brewing ill fantasies; however, I was quickly able to turn away from them. She was wearing a hat; however, I didn't pay attention to the hat. My interest sparked in her dressing sense, as she was wearing a dark‑blue skirt, a greyish cardigan, and stockings. My thought pondered what A— might have looked like in the same outfit. I figured if I didn't say something quickly she'd simply walk away and I couldn't let that happen. Someone as kind as her has the potential to be—or perhaps, imagine if she has the same music taste as I. Her eyes—why haven't I looked into her eyes? Do her eyes sparkle like the light of stars? Anything I can do to buy me some time? But no, no… I must not make her feel that I am desperate. Why do I do this? Why am I stressing over something so irrelevant? And I love A—, right? How could I even think about something like this? I am insane. My back started to feel like it was peeling worse than before. Though I wished to do something or say something, I simply started walking away with a grin, ignoring her kind gesture, leaving her with a frown and concern—though she didn't bother to investigate further.
You can give a love‑deficit person like me the slightest love, and oh well, the stuff I would be willing to do to hold onto that little amount of comfort that I have nowhere else to receive from (or at least I cannot find)—where I will not have to put effort into keeping myself put together (completely ignoring the acid I am drinking, thinking it's an antidote, and putting more of my life force away to keep someone, to return a little bit of love they don't even mean)—oh, how pathetic I am, oh, how blind I am. Such a mindless animal I am. I, who have no self‑love, who suffer myself to stand out, who take hours at times just to learn to fit into society—just to not get eyes for existing. Oh, I know most of you know how it feels—how it feels trying to be something someone just to not be seen as an outcast, to put oneself through mental and physical torture to disguise yourself into something you don't want to. The cries of despair that you have shed to yourself, afraid of telling others because either the one who pretends to be the ears to your voice is doing it for the sake of standing out themselves, and you too feel yourself too, that deep inside their heart, they too feel a disgust for you. Disgusted by your own self and the acts of others. You wish you would change; you think you changed; I thought I could change; I thought I would change. So many people, so many versions of myself that I have idolised, that I have pretended. The amount of lies I have fed myself and the amount of force I have used against my own self to commit acts I viewed made me less of a person I am and drove me away from the person I want to be. But in the end I failed this act of role play and was confronted by none other than myself: a part of me that always was there, yet I ignored it—no, I didn't ignore it; I wasn't ready to accept it, so I acted like it was fake, that it didn't exist, that I am not what I really am.