< 23rd september 2022 >
beloved diary,
i'm writing this at 3am with my entire body, the network of veins inside it is stagnant cold and frozen while my legs and arms are shaking because of an accidental phone call on my mom's phone. it dosen't amuse me when a simple ringing sound at a certain time results to panic attacks. i can deal with them, i've trained myself to pretend that my hands are stiff and cry silently or just not at all since what? 6th grade with the spending half of every class in the washroom? yeah i can probably deal with this.
on the other hand, i have been observing more than ever the symbolism in every little thing. i don't even want to know or feel the malicious mortality in each and everything — i cannot stop myself from noticing it even though i want to stop because hyper-awareness, hyper-observation make you go down with them.
a few weeks ago on my way back home from school, i noticed several bright yellow narcissus growing in the brick fence of the tower behind mine and wondered to myself "what a rare and positive sign, i need to get at least one of those flowers for myself."
with a luck like mine, i obviously didn't get to pick one for the next few weeks. (not that i even expected to) time flew as i watched those daffodils every day, appreciating them, wanting them and thinking about them. then this monday i had to go through that tower to reach home so i was hopeful. hopeful that i might finally see the delicate and mortal life of theirs up close and might finally be able to carry one in my own two graceless hands. some zeal in a purposeless void. as i finally moved up to them, i noticed that all of the flowers were withered and wiltered. in their crisp blackness they shrinked to a size that could not be picked up. it was like the flowers rejected me, that they would rather die than be polluted by me, their essence going as soon as i pick them or that nature itself decided that sun yellow daffodils are better being destroyed by the nature's own darkness instead of a human's, specifically mine or a reminder that i am just the echo of the story – simply there to give the deserving honor and life to narcissus because he's pretty self obsessed and echo speaks ugly weird. my fortune is the same as my hair and my eyes, a dark layer of solid vantablack spread around using knife brushes with no colour variations at all. i have always been aware of this and nobody ever needs to be sorry. i've learned to be at peace with tar luck (or it will seek freedom and crash worlds)
deliriously,
your unfortunate friend
أنت تقرأ
open scarlet letters
غير روائي"we're so young but we're on the road to ruin, we play dumb but we exactly what we're doing we show off, our different scarlet letters" (new romantics, taylor swift) the chronicles of a not very stable person recorded through diary entries. a new a...
