Entry #1
I don't consider myself a real person. I like the feeling of touching my fingertips, walking, breathing air. Yet I don't see myself as anything more than a fleeting memory. I am a fish who dwells into the web space, silent.
For as long as I can remember, I regretted being alive. Because being alive meant being a passerby in a world that is so everchanging for someone who can't keep up. I can't swim this fast. In fact, I may not be able to swim at all. I just float, complete the tasks I need to complete, in order to be seen as an adult.
No real person considers me their best friend. It is something I have seen it happen this weekend. I had to ask my current friends if they enjoy having me around. It is something I do ever so often it has almost become a regular occurance. They insisted that they do like me and that I am a good person. Yet, I can't help but feel unsatisfied. Because, deep down, I know these are just words of encouragement, meant to surpress the temporary insecurity I feel every single day. And I also know, no matter how much I beg, those times I spend being a good person, a good colleague, a good friend β they all get forgotten eventually. Nothing good remains.
