11th Aug 1994
Hey Diary. Today I’m going to tell you stuff about myself. About my twisted, convoluted ways. About my lies and deceptions. About how I wallow in self-pity sometimes.
I’m shallow. I lie to justify my behaviour. I lie to others and to myself. I lie about having these triggers of depression. I lie about caring. Truth is, I don’t (read: I am incapable of) giving a damn about anybody. I can’t feel anything but fear, pain and rejection. Joy is only momentary. It lasts for about three seconds before deserting me, leaving me buried in the valley of hate and loathing.
You know Diary, perhaps, killing a man is better than all the things I have done. I have deceived. I have been dishonest. I’ve caused pain to those people I’ve come closest to.
I’ve never really understood beauty. Never really cared much for art. Music is noise to me. Flowers are just three dimensional manifestations of shapes I drew on paper when I was in kindergarten. The sky and the stars are plain confusing. God, spirituality… everything is distant to my brain.
I don’t understand science either. Nor do I get poetry. Maybe this explains why I can’t do anything right or do it well. A classmate said that I need to go to church. Listen to sermons. God would touch me and finally I’d be able to feel joy. Another friend told me that I need to understand science to understand a lot of things. Quantum physics, she said, is the answer to everything.
Neither struck a chord with me. I am not reluctant to understand. I just can’t. I find myself in places where I want to be as a person that I dream of being. Deep down, I can’t recognize myself. People have told me a lot of things. I’m attractive. Intelligent. Smart. Capable. Kind. Do I believe these things? There’s an answer that springs into my head: Of course! Then there’s the truth that lurks somewhere far behind, repressed by my desire to believe in the things I hear about me.
I sit and wonder if I have a soul at all. Hah, funny. Led Zeppellin is playing and Robbie Plant just sang “I don’t know, but I’ve been told, Big lipped women ain’t got no soul”. Goddamn if my lips aren’t big!
I’m as hollow as my words are. As pale as today’s moon looks. As cold as a rock by the sea is. Is it any wonder, Diary, that I wander aimlessly as I wade through this life?
I feel empty now. Weightless. Lighter than your pages, Diary… but the wind won’t carry me away.