#dramatic diary

I am anything, anywhere. I am crying about spilled milk, and yet, I spill milk all the same. I stare into space. Maybe I am in space, my body is floating. Somewhere. I am laughing, somewhere. I am frowning, somewhere. My eyes must look like they're lost, drifting through a fog under eerie moonlight. Somewhere, he frowns. Somewhere, she stares.

"You wander into dreamland," they say.

Oh, how I would love to be engulfed into the world. To drown in it's many layers without needing to name each thing or understand each process. To just be everywhere, at all times, witnessing chemical reactions in a way scientists could never with their microscopes. To smell atoms like bees smell pollen, to run my fingers through clouds like the wind does through the leaves of trees, to feel the earth spin around it's axe, to hear volcanos burp and have a taste of space. How wonderful must it be, to experience the world like God! I can't help but feel envy for those with sharpened senses, even as I know that those individuals tend to be overwhelmed on a daily basis. I feel blind and ignorant for experiencing slower and less than others do, but I do appreciate the calm that comes with it. It's only when that turns to numbness that I feel that shame again. As though I am to be punished for 'not experiencing the world in the right way' or 'not deeply enough'. I don't feel like my hobbies excite me the way they would others. But if I killed God and became one myself, as Dostoyevsky suggests, then that would change. I would be everywhere, at all times.

I would experience it all.

Breathe in. The birds chirp as a breeze rustles their nest, leaves shuffling like cards, while some spiral out into a wind stream, through wet streets reflecting neon lights and echoing the blares of cars, taking drops of rain along the way. The leaves still married to their wood sink, slow and steady, to hang on a branch, settling back to their space in the air and a mere droplet trickles down of it to rejoin the earth. Breathe out. And so the trees breathe in and out, even under a brew of drops spilling down onto the earth. I wanna be like the leaves. To wobble in space and let the air sift through me every now and then. I want to breathe. Not to have a knot tighten in my chest, not to feel my jaw clench, my shoulders spring up, or my arms stiffen, my fingers sprawl out, reaching for something that I can't grasp. I want to breathe. Voices buzz while distant clatter breaks out of the background, the lights blare and prickle my eyes, the wind constricts me into a current I cannot escape. I want to breathe. Eyes scan me – I didn't get many words out of my throat, a smile wouldn't pop out of my skull. I want to breathe. His brows furrow but he pauses. His eyes soften. He says nothing, but I know. He sees that I can't breathe.

And still he pops a smile for me. And for a moment, I remember the days I did breathe.

I thought people were joking when they said they couldn’t get the person they loved out of their head. Now I know they were not. Not at all. No matter where I am and what I am doing, I attribute all and everything to him, no matter how unrelated it may seem. He haunts me everywhere so I scan the room for him if I know he might be there and it is so hard not to stare at him all the time. It feels as if I just woke up one day and decided that he would be constantly occupying my mind from now on. There is a corner of my mind, reserved just for him, that I like to visit at those times that others would check their phone or chat with someone they barely know, simply to pass time. At the beginning, it did not get in the way of school. On the contrary, I was more motivated than ever to participate in class and spoke my mind. Only when the insecurities started to set in, when doubt disturbed me in my waking hours, pushing my sleeping hours behind, only then did it start to bother me. It had been so easy before, I didn’t think it would be too bad to think about him whenever I got the chance to. It felt natural and it felt right. And all of a sudden it had become a living nightmare, thinking about him all hours of the day, postponing sleep and work and hardly talking to friends. I went from an active student to someone who slacked off and showed little interest doing whatever the teachers asked me to do. It felt like I was going through hell. Each day I forced myself through to the other day and not even laying in bed helped. Nothing helped. Nothing excited me and all I could do was to think about him, anyway. What should I have done? I could only watch the shell left of me wander through the monotonous daily life as all my mind could pay attention to were my oh so grand movements. My weird gestures. My fluctuating tone of voice. What stupid things I said. And how dumb he must have thought I was. And really nothing could stop me from eating myself from the inside, just because I needed to understand, what it was that I was being and what it was that I needed to become. Who I needed to be to appease him and everybody I admired. To meet the expectations thrown at me whenever someone pointed out that I could use brain cells. Who are humans? What are they, really? Who did I need to be, in order to be a human? Are there wrong ways to be human? Is there a defect human? Was I doing it all wrong? Was I destined to be a defect, forever? Who are the defect people? We have to change them, don’t we? We have to show them the way to trully be human! They just don’t know it yet, but they are wrong. They were born defect.

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin. It is a lyric by Aurora. Really, success is nothing. I am bad at feeling things (or processing things, more accurately), but I can say with confidence that success isn’t worth shit. I don’t give a fuck about how people think of me if I can’t be close to them. Intimate with them. It really doesn’t matter how greatly they think of me when they won’t be close to me. I want someone to give me deep pressure hugs. I want to hold hands. I want to know all about someone. I want to love unapologetically. I want to love so many people and know each of them on a deep level, making a new discovery about them each and every day. I want to get to know just how warm human touch can be. I want to explore the depths of platonic, romantic and sexual love. And I want to do that together. To learn with them about them and about myself. Like a little partner project. Or even better, a little group project. Just a little project that influences my daily life and completely changes me as a human being.

There is this specific human being that likes to keep an unhealthy distance from everyone. That person is very narcissistic. He is pretty much an asshole. He is probably the person he hates and loves the most in the world. He has a very pessimistic world view. He doesn’t ask for help. You never know what he is thinking. Really, he is a (english word for seeigel), scared of the outside world. It seems so illogical from an outside perspective, even more so when considering that he is so smart he could be going to uni (bro actually got invited to a student uni), but it is very logical. He is what has been called a freak for the past three centuries. And freaks need to be extra protective, or else their ‘freakness’ might isolate them from society. And who would ever want that? He might also have other stuff going on, but his ‘freakness’ undoubtedly makes his life unnecessarily hard.

The main characters in movies and books were always so normal. They looked and dressed a certain way, they talked a certain way and had friends, who they really missed and enjoyed talking to. They thought about their friends. They cared about them and about the way they dressed and looked. They were so normal, so I thought I was damned to forever be a side character. To wear whatever I found lying around, to cry when it was hair care day, to sit alone in breaks in school. I thought, until I met other weirdos.

The weirdos all wear different things. Sone of them wears the same things every day, some others dresse like english private school students, and I dress whatever I find in my thrift store. I love to combine the colours and patterns in a way that makes each piece fit into a whole picture. And that isn't easy to do with thrifted clothes.

The weirdos wear their hair however they like to. A girl has short hair like I do. She said we were the two only girls in our school year, and though I didn't correct her, I am not a girl. Some boys let their hair grow long, though they usually keep them tied up.

The weirdos sit together in breaks. Sometimes they just sit, letting the tumult around them fill the silence, and sometimes they make their own noise, greatly contributing to the tumult of break time. The weirdos talk very different to each other than they do to me. They get much louder and excited with each other than they ever do talking to me. They talk in a much more straightforward and dry manner to me, though they do talk regularly to me. Do the weirdos feel weird talking to me?