"September 16th. The girl with the book surprisingly spoke to me again today. She even told me her name, although I think "bookseller" is more fitting. Of course, I won't call her that in person, but I don't like her enough to call her by her name here.
"People have finally stopped paying attention to me in class. They've gone from giving me dirty looks to completely ignoring me. The only people who've given me dirty looks have been the bookseller's "friends" when they've gone to talk to her. I don't care at all now, whether they're looking at me or not. Oh, and tomorrow I'm going to get the grades for last week's exams. I'm so nervous..."
" And I haven't mentioned it because it seemed irrelevant, but I almost fell asleep writing that. I haven't slept at all, not yesterday, not today, I couldn't. It's not because I had a Saturday night, but no matter how tired I am, at night it seems like my body and mind just don't want to go to sleep. Maybe I should have fallen asleep at the keyboard a little while ago. Well, I don't think I'll be able to write much today, I have a ton of homework, and two projects to start, and with what they assigned me today I'm going to do more than I did in the first quarter... So, anyway, I'll let you know how it goes, bye."
"September 17th. I'm tired of putting the date on this shit. I'm tired of everything, I can't do a fucking thing right, and I always have to screw everything up. If I keep going like this I'm going to end up hurting people, if I keep doing everything wrong I'm going to end up screwing people's lives up."
"And yet, I can't do anything. I've already tried my hardest, studied for three weeks, and everything, EVERYTHING, has gone to shit. So much time wasted reading poorly written pages, poorly summarized, like an idiot. It's my fault everything went so wrong. It's horrible. I'm horrible. I deserve it. That's what I get for not having dedicated even more time to it."
"If I can't do this, then what am I going to do in the future? Will I be able to do anything? Will I even get anything out of finishing my studies? It's like thinking that once I finish my studies I'll find the perfect job, and it's bullshit."
"I'm not good at work because I don't like any job. If I can't decide on a job now, after I've seen almost everything, why would I think I'd like that little bit I haven't seen, if it's been so irrelevant that I haven't even found it yet? If I were that weird, that weird, then people would at least pay a little more attention to me."
"Every teacher has told me the same thing. 'If you're starting like this this term, you didn't do anything last term.' 'You probably didn't study anything.' 'You should have known this in high school.' And all with those whispers and those rotten, horrible looks, it makes me want to gouge everyone's eyes out.
" But I can't fool anyone. I know I deserve them. They're better people than I am. They've passed, I haven't. I'm the idiot, the retarded one, the stupid one. I'm inferior. No, I've always been. Just because I think differently from the rest doesn't mean I'm superior. Just because I have different tastes from them doesn't mean they're inferior.
They've always had someone with them, I've always been alone. I'm not even worth it as a fake friend. No one has even bothered to get close to me with those intentions. And I'm not going to say that nonsense about being too good for the rest. It's bullshit. Whoever says that is only saying it to make themselves feel better, because of how pathetic they are, because of the terrible person they've become.
"The fact that there are people who think this way disgusts me. Are people that messed up in their heads? But of course, who's going to bother listening to the voice of a loser, a failure, a mistake, someone inferior, not because of their race, ethnicity, or beliefs, but because of who they are?"
"In a just world, people would be judged as superior or inferior by who they are—by their accomplishments, their goals, their personality, their being—everything that has to do with the person, not their body or beliefs. I abide by this."
"I don't have any qualities or beliefs that anyone could mess with, and yet, I have no one except my family, and at the rate I'm going, I'm going to lose them all. I'm going to lose them all because of my own incompetence, because of my own lack of interest in everything. I'm horrible, I should do it. I wish I could. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid."
"I want to diediediediediediediedie. It's easier, faster, and more everything. You only have to face something difficult once. If you live, you're going to be constantly suffering. Life is like a toxic relationship; everything is fucking shit, everything is full of abuse and despair. No one will congratulate you for the things you do well, especially if it's your duty, but everyone will point out and laugh at your mistakes. And on top of that, to keep you from leaving the relationship, there are fleeting moments of happiness, love, and affection, and then the cycle of suffering continues.
"Why do I want to live? What motives do I have? What makes me cling to life so tightly, and what makes me so afraid of death? Pain. The pain that death brings is what terrifies me. I don't know what to do to avoid dying. What if I do it wrong? I don't want to have a horrible death. If only I could stop existing, everything would be so much better. Why can't I convince myself to do it? Is it because I still think I can stop being alone? I don't want to be alone. I"
The piece of text ended abruptly there. At least for today, there was still more to read.
I didn't reflect or think about what I had just read, but even though I didn't feel anything, I could feel a black cloud spreading behind my head, making it harder and harder to see things around me, but easier to read.
The glow of the computer screamed at me to pay attention to it, that it was there to help me, not to reject it.
I couldn't feel myself, and I don't mean physically. I didn't feel like myself. It's as if, at that moment, I had no identity. I was a nameless consciousness forced to read the writing of a girl I didn't know, with no purpose in my existence other than that.
I could only read, and that's all I wanted to do at that moment. I continued, knowing nothing good would come of it.