Beneath the Barricades

fictional diary/story of a girl who is mortified by her own existence.

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2. Unhappy

September 7th

        Dearest diary,

i can't believe i let it get this bad. i'm trying, i'm trying - so very hard, but it's not enough. Everywhere i go people seem to stare, but why? Why god? Why am i like this? What is wrong with me? I am so unhappy.. i am wallowing in an indigo swamp in my brain. i can't steer my future, i've fallen off the tracks. i'm dying. this is it. this. is. it. If i could i would pull the trigger silently as to not disturb the happy-goers in their perfect nirvana. can you not see my sadness? it is right here, so very closely. it is written on my arms and legs - in the pit of my stomach as the acids eat away at my body fat, hoping to cease the hunger that i have not yet fed.  it is there.  i have seen it, i can hear it, i can feel it.  i am it.  This is no game, but merely a war.  i am fighting this battle, and for what? to be glorified by a death that i have no control  over? one that may or may not do my life on earth justice? But no! I Must not let the lemmings devour me, for first i will conquer - then there is goodbye.  my existence will end when i say so, and it will perish by my own hand.. this i am sure of.  the only thing in life that is promised is death, and death that i can control is the only thing i ever wanted. Is that not wrong? well if it's wrong, i don't want to be right. i am twisted in my shell of my so called "body." i am grotesque.  if i were not invisible, i swear i could be seen by every mirror on this planet. i am large, and that is still an understatement.  i am not a person - i am a creator.  a lowly creator who does not deserve to eat food or to not be scarred.  there is not a fate for me, for the only future that i know is a blackness that will surround me in the everlasting depression in my mind.  there is not a way out.  no escape.  there never has been, and there never will be.  I hear the children when they snicker.. i hear the children when i walk... but i cannot see the children when they point at me, for my vision is clotted by waterfalls of rain in my eyelids.  i am visible to the ones who despise me - they loathe me, though they do not detest my being as much as i do, for that would be impossible; even amongst the ones who have it all.  All i ever wanted was to be what i cannot be - pretty, thin, and tall.  I envy the ones who have it all.  They pretend like they don't know, but inside, right under the surface, they're proud for what they are; they're in love with their existence and are infatuated by themselves.  I bet every time they look in the mirror they tell themselves how amazingly brilliant their looks are - and you know what's true? the ones who are oddly gifted in their looks are so very wise, and that makes me feel petty and unimportant. i am unimportant like an aglet of a shoelace. what's an aglet? exactly.  i feel cursed. there is not one thing about myself that makes me feel slightly superior to the beauties in this society - in every society.  if i were to go to a different country, not one person would be intrigued. Like you would think if a person from the UK, like myself, were to go to America that every person would fall instantaneously in love with you and that they'd find you to be simply charismatic. well, that is not my case. everyone would wonder what godforsaken planet i had fallen off of, and there i would be again - left to be eaten alive in a tank full of sharks; maybe that way it would at least be ruled accidental death - but where would the fun be in that? if you want something done right, do it yourself.

 

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