I have always been a mosquito. Not in body, but in spirit.
I remember the first time I understood it—the hunger, the restlessness, the impossible craving for what others freely gave and I could never earn. I was small, unseen, yet painfully aware that the world could drain you without mercy, and yet, you kept reaching. I floated through rooms like an invisible insect, watching parents' eyes pass over me, teachers' voices leave me unacknowledged, friends' laughter drift away without me.
Every desire I had—for warmth, for attention, for care—came with a cost. I took. I clung. I fed in ways I could not explain, even to myself. And in doing so, I left marks: small wounds, subtle irritations, invisible bruises on hearts that had once reached for me. I had no name for it then, no understanding, only the compulsion that thrummed in my veins like a buzzing wing.
At night, when the world grew still and shadows stretched across the floorboards, I would lie awake imagining it—not as a place of people, but as a vast swarm: buzzing, biting, feeding, surviving. And in that swarm, I saw myself—a tiny, restless parasite, both reviled and necessary, a creature born of need, not cruelty. Each life around me was a faint pulse of warmth, a small reservoir of sustenance, and I hovered, invisible, itching, hungering.
Even then, I wondered if it was possible to be a good mosquito. Could I take without leaving lasting harm? Could I satisfy my hunger without wounding those I touched? The questions haunted me, buzzing endlessly in my mind, louder than the creaking of the old wooden floorboards, louder than the wind scraping across the windowpane. I tried to reason with it, to bury it, to quiet it—but instinct is patient and cruel.
Childhood was a training ground. I learned how to move unnoticed, how to wait for the right moment, how to stretch my arms toward affection while keeping my bite hidden. I watched the world, studied its rhythms, traced the curves of attention, and practiced my survival. I became skilled at taking the smallest warmth, the faintest attention, the tiniest kindness—and leaving just enough of myself behind to appear harmless. Yet nothing was ever enough.
The hunger returned, sharper, more insistent, gnawing at the corners of my consciousness, twisting every moment of joy into a reminder of what I lacked. I tried to mask it with smiles, with laughter, with quiet diligence. But the whisper persisted: seek, take, bite, feed. And each time I ignored it, it grew louder, echoing like the hum of a thousand unseen wings.
I began this diary not to confess, not to seek absolution, but to map my own life, my own hunger. To understand how a human being becomes a mosquito—a being both insignificant and insidious, unnoticed and yet impossible to forget. I would write the record of every flight, every bite, every failure. I would chart the patterns of my existence and, perhaps, come to know the creature I had become before the world forced me to vanish or transform further.
This is the story of my bites. My flights. My failures. My desperate, endless quest to be good, even as everything I touch turns restless, itchy, and drained.
If you read this, listen closely. Because somewhere in the quiet nights, in the invisible moments, we all carry the instincts of a mosquito. And some of us… never learn to stop.