All my life I've been in a dilemma and confusion. I thought of writing about it—the dilemma. I was quite young when I started writing and I never took it seriously. I don't write things aimlessly, I wrote stories and fiction. I haven't used writing as a way to escape; rather, I saw writing itself in a new light, in a new hope. When I started to write first, I never thought it was a boon or bane—it was simply because I loved writing.
As I grew, I began to write more poetry, which never rhymed with words, and drunken philosophies about life and heartbreak I would never understand but feel carelessly. I was prone to melancholy and autumn, falling for a river I never knew the destination of.
As a writer who is living—I hate the dead writers. It's not an offence, rather a confession. I hate how the living people appreciate the dead bodies. When a person is living, they receive zero flowers, and when they die, they're thrown flowers.
I wish some people actually looked into my work. I never had a fanbase—because I was too excited to show the world my face, and I loved hiding. I'm anonymous. I loved manipulating, even though I did not manipulate people for bad—I tried a few tricks, and it worked out for me.
I always wondered this. I happened to say this to you today because of that incident that happened again in my lifetime. There are children and adolescents with good parents, yet these offsprings choose to be bad and manic. One of them, that manic, was my friend. She told me today that she loves seeing psychopath movies and bad guys, blood-stricken monsters. I wouldn't understand how such people actually exist—might be because they were never given the chance to be. When one gives themselves the chance to be bad, they know how worse the consequences are—and worst if they start to love it. People become psychopaths sometimes when they don't give a damn about themselves. Why it is worst because you cause an eruption in society and what if that touches my own family? So stay sane. Losing yourself isn't something cool, atleast for me.
I think I'll not continue to write a lot of things even though I have gallons of thoughts in my mind flowing. These thoughts are only made for my mind to overthink and my heart to throb—you know that, right? Some things are exactly like that. You know what they mean, but they will never tell you what—what was. You have to beg for their understanding to know them. Sometimes you just go insane and give up thinking. I feel that a lot, yet with a dare and ego, I came to pen down my thoughts. What I've known about myself is—I'm a kind soul with an ego loaded.
It feels pathetic and dilemmatic sometimes—not because I'm egotistic or kind. Not because people will take my kindness for granted or think rude of me because I'm egoistic. It is just that I can't express my same nature at the same time. You see, when you allow yourself to be kind to someone, your ego will automatically turn off in front of them—or if you show your ego, you never gave them a chance to see your kindness.
I'll show my kindness to the well-known and ego to the unknown. I need fewer people in my life. Because remembering many people's names isn't easy. It was really crazy that a few people wished me Friendship Day and I wouldn't remember half of the names. It was all just numbers saved with pretty names.
I don't want to be a villain. Sometimes my deep consciousness hits my nerve, and I witness my green veins popping and eyes twinkling with a red nerve. I remembered writing in my diary:
"A human is a lavender-colored species, with a mix of light red angel and dark blue demon."
I purposely think we're both. I think the angel gave the human its brain, and the demon—a very smart move—its heart. And I use mostly my heart—like every other human.
The purpose is to unleash my wildness into softness through my writings. This—what I am writing to you—is the diary. I'm a fire, not only a fire but I'm an ice. I'm the ice inside a fire.