Morning Scribbled down on Friday, 19 August 2005 4:48:37 AM
My hands smell like cheese as I ate some in sandwiches just now. Though I hardly drink any juices, sodas or teas (I rarely do), I decided to drink orange juice which is usually the drink I avoid because it's so acid. If I could learn to take long hours over food, I'd have something to do and the day would fly and I wouldn't be eating so much. I spent the whole day almost in bed when my brother's girlfriend arrived. I can't bring it up to be among people, strangers. I don't like making friends, it means I'd have to be friendly and during these times I had other things on my mind than playing dress up games (to not have to say I must pretend). My mum came warning me when she was about to go to bed and so I was able to come online when she went to sleep. Now I'm here in the livingroom where everything is (my cds, books, computer). I found a book on the couch. I started doubting my memory as it's not acting too healthy. If I have to recite everything that happened on a day, I wouldn't be able to. Depends though. I kept surprising myself. The book. Yes. It wasn't mine. It was hers. It laid on its back as if to hide the frontcover. I turned it around to see for sure if it wasn't one of my library books but it was a book I can still remember I had read when I was quite young during the classes of a teacher named 'Gilbert'. I remember I'd sometimes title her as 'Gillen' (is a verb in Dutch which means 'scream/screaming') as that's what she would do. She doesn't talk but she shouts. I had to do an essay, at least a sort of a review on the book where we get presented a set of questions which you could only answer if you had read the book in its entireness. The story is sad. It's about a boy who gets bullied at school. Another guy feels sympathy for him. There are many sorts of sympathy. I can name two: pity and compassion. When you have pity, I think you're forced to do something just to be kind. Compassion can be a sincere caring, where the others wellbeing is important. I know pity and compassion may have similiar meanings but I define words by the emotions they call when I pronounce them. That's also how I usually try to guess an unknown word's definition. The guy who became friends with the bullied boy does so out of pity. At the end, friend is just a word. Everyone seems to have the same treacherous face and he commits suicide (drowns himself in a lake). Then the guy will have regret and blames himself. Kind of to make yourself angry about. It's realistic though. That's how the world behaves. I finished it rather quickly and later on I tried to read more books from the author. I accidentally rebooted, I almost lost all my writings. I managed to save it before it would get lost (popups were filling the screen and they make the pc freeze up on me) when closing other windows. If I wasn't afraid to hang myself, I would. Instead I'm trying a method that is so complicated. I gain information everywhere or by two sources and both are saying completely different things. It discourages me. If I was to hang myself, I'd just need a rope and tie a noose and there I go. I would only have a bit of damage around my neck. But doing poison will damage probably, or most definitely everything in me. The sadness that brought me could be explained that sometimes I saw my body as another person and I didn't want to hurt it. I already did... with automutilating and medication abuse, also eating and starvation. I only want to get rid of me and this was the only way, either it was me or someone else. Without doubt, I was incredibly frightened. I think I may postpone the date to a time further in the future, to replace the order I did wrong. I may not want to go right now but things will happen to upset me and I will see the reasons again why it's no good for me to stay. As long as I wasn't here in January, it's all fine. If I postponed the date, perhaps M. would show up too, I hoped so much for that. If not, I would still email him and let him know. And carry on hoping to see a glimpse of him anywhere or to meet up with him, could it be he gave up unable to tell me. You know, the whole preparation I was doing, felt like I was arranging a vacation, only one that would take forever. I felt like I was going on a plane which always had me excited as I loved being on board and to experience the plane lifting itself off the ground, into air, higher and higher. I know death isn't like that but it felt like it. I was anxious to go. It made me feel happy, unexplainable happy. I believed things would be better for me, though hurtful for others but you have to think of yourself. And many has left before me, even famous people. Right now many were taking the plane as well. Imagine. Fear is normal, what is there out there awaiting me? I always thought about that whenever I was going abroad. There are only three options: something good, bad or nothingness.

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