Hello everyone! Welcome to my site.

I do not expect that many people will read this. The most popular sites among cyberspace are those born of love, brimming with aesthetics and comfort. Yet I have nothing to offer you. With neither grandeur nor allure to my name, I hope you can bear the burden of my thoughts. I am sorry for leaving them with you. As an introduction, I am a high school student from the east coast of the United States. I love to hike, though there are not many trails near me. I also love to bake cookies and eat cookies. I love my cat and I am fairly quiet.

Since sharing my first thought, nine people have read it. I feel so selfish for sharing this. No one should read this. I don't deserve your pitty. I am sorry. The remaining thoughts have mentions of self harm and suicide.

I have taken 15 milligrams of melatonin. It has left a pain in my stomach and not the slightest bit of drowsiness. I would not recommend it.

I am being prosecuted, and my continued existence goes against the very nature of consciousness. Everyday I live on borrowed time. That is a debt that I hope to repay soon, although when I feel ready to embrace the sweet lick of the light, I fall short. Instead my wounds deepen, until I can only presume they will reach bone. Those agonies that I face every night are not comparable to hell. The damned are hopeless. However, I do not have that luxury. The valleys on my thighs are to let hope seep out. Although I have thought its pain to be the emotion of the wound as it lived or even its murmur of affection.

Someone has posted on my guestbook. It made me feel so ecstatic that it brought tears to my eyes. I paced around my house for an hour thinking of how to respond. It feels so wonderful to be acknowledged. As for how I’m doing: I feel like bittersweet hope.

Hope is the sole thread I cling to. Once, while hiking with my sister, she asked what the meaning of life was. To me, the meaning of life seemed inextricably linked to the meaning of death. To that, I responded that it would take losing hope, or even the mere illusion of it, for me to surrender. Dying is admitting to the ridiculous character of habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation, and the uselessness of suffering. Yet, it is impossible to come to that conclusion if you are rekindled by hope. That is why, despite many attempts, I live.

I have fantasized about getting treatment, although the notion still terrifies me. If you take my illness from me, I do not know what you would be left with. In the language of cancer, it is assumed that there exists a normal person underneath that illness. No one ever says that a person is cancer, or has become cancer. Yet they do say that a person is schizophrenic or manic-depressive. It is hard to hold on to that hope, and for that, hope is a cruel punishment.

Blah blah blah I hate myself and living you get the idea. I cringe every time I read my old entries haha. Maybe that means I am improving, althought, I doubt it.

I had a long, incoherent rambling prepared about hating myself and living in agonizing psychological pain, but after reading through the entry, I realized no one would probrably care. So instead, I will talk about my dinner. I saw online that to make creamy instant ramen, you had to add kewpie, egg, and minced garlic to the instant noodle spice packet just before mixing in the noodles. I was hungry and curious, so I tried it. It tasted as you expected; the broth was hearty and savory with a biting garlic taste. Although there was some greasy undertone? Greasy presence? Greasy notion? I don’t know, there was something oily and slick about the soup that made me feel impure and unsatisfied after tasting it. It was not bad, I just respect the clarity of honest humbling broth. I would eat it again if I am ever in the mood to eat ramen with kewpie, egg, and minced garlic.

It is hard to feel anything. I only do feel in the absence of unfeelingness. I apologize for the truism, as it has been hard to think straight. It is as if the spectrum of emotion has been condensed, in the most unpoetic way to describe it, into a shorter spectrum. Maybe it would have been better if I left the house more, although, I doubt it.

Sorry for the nonsensical ramblings again. Hard to think. These entries are becoming more disorganized rambles rather than articulately and poetically crafted pieces that I intended. I can’t organize my thoughts in this state of mind.

You would expect bliss in absurdity. Living as Don Quixote, non-conformity refining retributing reduction. It is not. I feel so anxious and dreadful. I have to fidget, to pace around, to have things occupy my mind. As I write this, my legs are wavering just so I can concentrate enough. I can show it to you with my hands. They will bend in chaotic, nonuniform, nonfluid ways. My mind is flashing. Nonsensical ideas. Scenes from shows and books. Words to write down. Memories and fears. Messiness muddle splattering the walls of my brain. I don’t feel I exist in my own consciousness. There is a feeling of uniformity, or order, or some kind of law that persists with an orderly mind. There is no feeling. Everything makes no sense right now. My arms move sporadically. I have to clutch my head.

You can enter my mind. Neurons activate sporadically. My cat meows, the crickets chirping in my window. Why are they so loud? Crickets are small, right? And they aren’t in my window, they’re outside. Would they have to be baked in glass to be inside? The light, in my room, it feels off. Remember each ray that bounces throughout my room and into my retina. They must be working so hard. I had to reword that sentence to clarify that the light is in my room. Why does it matter to clarify? What does it matter? That grammar is off. Don’t you see? See what? Im banging my computer with my had as I type. My fist is clenched. Why does my hand conform to that shape? Why can’t it just bend backwards. Or retract? I try to do so. It hurts, but the sensation is warm. My thoughts are darting around. Dancing like little fireflies. As they bounce off my skull, each bug leaves a painful impression. Maybe not painful, more like nauseating. I'm sure they sell medicine to stop these thoughts, but I can't tell my parents. It hurts so much to think.

Thank you for telling me to have a good day, I am trying my best!

My parents left for West Virginia for the weekend, off to sightsee and pick peaches with work acquaintances, leaving me home alone. In that solitude, I found peace, some of the most tranquil days I have had in a while. The first day drifted in a pleasant haze, as I spent it reading, sleeping, browsing the internet, and chipping away at my homework (my senior year of highschool had just started). As night fell, I chatted with friends and played online games. There was a sense of liberation in the quiet of that day. The second day, I stumbled upon an old Sony Walkman, EX811, which must have been bought back when my parents used to live in Japan. I had to bike to the hardware store to buy screws to fix the Walkman. Albeit frustrating, I tinkered with the relic till it worked. It was very satisfying. Unfortunately, the only cassettes I have are the ones my parents used to learn English. Hopefully I can buy some classical music for me to listen to.

I suppose my joy was short lasted. I heard the garage door open, as my parents had just arrived. I went downstairs to greet my mother, but I didn’t dare exchange glances with my father. My father slapped my cat because he had puked on the carpet; I felt helpless to watch. I asked my mother if I could go hiking over the Labor Day weekend, as it has been months since I had last, and they screamed back. They shouted about my sat, my gpa, and other statistics I couldn’t bother to remember. I don’t understand, I tried my best, I did fine, and yet they demand more. Sometimes I wonder if they see me past my results, I’m sure they do, but it's hard to remember that when their love feels like a blade. I have trained myself to think rationally, to remind myself that this is just how they show they care, that they have their best interests at heart. But as I retreated to my room, their voices still echoing through the house, I felt their words cut deep. My motivation to work on the Walkman drained away, leaving a familiar pain.