Dear Diary

My nights are drenched in thoughts about how something should have gone. I am a wreck and my hopes are too ambitious for my mind and body. I am not sure if I function as a proper human. Humans make mistakes and learn from it. I never learn. I do things again and again even when I know the endings are the same as last time. When I try doing something different it still ends up the same. I cannot change my ways. I strive to be different, yet I am nothing but a failure in my own system. I am way too generous to people far away, but rather selfish towards the people whom need my help. I like to work hard but in reality, I would rather just let it go. I am selfish and tired yet ambitious and generous. I am a people pleaser. I like to lie to myself to the point where I believe my own lies. When my lies get pointed out I feel offended. Those lies are my truth. I perceive things in a way most do not. I might be a sociopath. When it comes to thinking capability, seeing things and searching for limits, I am the same as one. I like my mind. It is unique. It is horrifying. It is mine. I shall love and own it as if it were my child. I do not like children. They are loud, dirty and obnoxious and I would never think about having one myself. I do not like my mind. It is difficult to read and the ecstasy of love is nowhere to be found. I like myself but I hate me. Do you understand that statement, dear Diary? I certainly do not. I am trapped in this mortal body with a mind made only for the gods to understand. It is hard. My brain likes to put my body to the test. What limit can it reach? Most limits make my body ache, in need of affection instead of the constant pain it receives. My body was not made for my mind. My mind was not made for my body.

Today a crow accompanied me. He was just there. He flew all the way to school with me and all the way back too. I promised myself that if he were to accompany me tomorrow I would consider naming him and tame the wild creature. This crow seems to be calling my name when its voice cuts through the air. It is a comforting sound. It reminds me of the fact that even if the other beings are not here to support me, this crow will still call out my name. After all, how are crows supposed to deceive someone whom they cannot communicate with? Dear Diary, I ask you this, should I put my trust in this creature? I want to believe this crow is a sign of company. A black light in the fog of clouds from the long days of despair I go through. This crow is the storm that comes after a sunny day. The sound cutting through the silence of empathy. This morning, before I left, my mother looked at me with empathy. I do not need empathy and certainly not from her. I like being alone. I like being different. The kids in my class, or the whole school even, will not be able to understand my goals. I would rather be anyone but me, but I do not mind being me. The worst in this life has yet to come but I am certainly not afraid. I shall take my punishment with pride and I stand behind my decisions. Dear Diary, notice how I put punishment instead of any form of unrightful pain? I think I deserve the pain I go through. After all, I was awful to anything to cross my path. Did I ever want to be normal? Perhaps when I was little. I tried liking pink and feminine clothes like puffy dresses. I tried liking cars and the football games my dad always used to watch in the evening. I ended up liking death. See, dear Diary? I am not in need of empathy and silence. I like the roaring sounds death brings. Silence is also a sound. Complete silence does not exist. Did you ever see how silence can be deafening? I like that silence. It is the silence of the dead. The ghosts wrapping themselves around me. They are screaming in my ears and sliding their cold hands down my back. I want to find the difference between life and death. The limit a body can take and how to stretch it out. I want to see the life fade out of a subject's eyes. I am curious for the creation of life, indeed, but I would rather see how death gets closer and closer to me. I want to befriend death and walk with him. I want to know death. I want to be like death. I want to be death. Am I really that different from any other teenager here? Am I different than from girl that enjoys inflicting pain on others by bullying? Or am I different from that boy who cuts open any creature he finds to see their intestines? Am I different from my classmates in general? Dear Diary, I just take interest in other things than others. I have the same ambitions and I strive to obtain knowledge. I want to research the most complicated things. The 'easy' things bore me. Dear Diary, you need a name. So does the crow. I will think about it.