Seven Scribbled down on Tuesday, 27 September 2005 9:18:36 AM
Dearest diary, In the weekend I watched Seven, what prevented me to sleep that night. I could see the scenes, the dead faces and I could hear the dialogues as if the movie was being replayed close to my ears. Kevin Spacey was nice in American Beauty but now I had difficulty to understand this villian he was. A very sick, sadistic murderer. One thing that I will always be, is a sort of a tree. Blown too hard by the wind, I will bend. You may not be right but if you pretend and play me, you will have me believe you. As I'm naive. Or simply: I really don't know what's moral, immoral, good or wrong. Many things John Doe was saying at the end where they were riding through the fields with these two inspectors, made me doubt myself. His hatred for fat people who take his apetite away. Also his disgust towards prostitutes who he murdered cruelly. What if he's right? I thought. Then I'm also a sinner... There were plenty of wrong things that were seen as good in this society, so I can't entirely blame myself for my ignorance. Even what I should give in to at the end, are my own feelings. It should be this way. At the end, it's my life. I shouldn't listen to others. Perhaps that's why it took so much of me to keep a 'friendship' or to communicate with someone not close. I started doubting myself. Someone I knew well could be assured they have my honesty. About myself. Well, not all the time. But they knew who I was. There are things I am silent about but most of the time, I will be (honest). *thinks* I don't think I've ever been entirely sincere with anyone. I only felt less tension to keep my mouth shut or to speak my heart out. I don't like talking about extreme dark topics such as serial killers and rapists. Everytime my curiosity won over my fear, I would have to endure all the images of victims that stayed stuck on my eye when I went to bed after watching documentaries. Sometimes (or often) it even made me so sad that even we're living with tons of people on this planet, still lots of crimes were commited infront of our open eyes. Sometimes we didn't do anything, we just watched it and went on, ignoring it. It's not our business. Nothing is our business. Why do I care so much? I usually couldn't sleep without having this grief out first. I felt I carried the burdens of others and I only felt better when I saw it flow away out of me, out of my thoughts, out of my body. Just red. I've cried so much I don't know how to cry. And the tears dry, as if they were never there. While I want to see the price I've payed for watching all this. My scars are the vivid evidence that my past was and is real. It tells me the stories of many memories I've forgotten. Darkness lingers longer at my portal than any other thing does. Was it possible for a woman to rape a guy. As if. That won't ever be possible. She can only 'murder' or steal what could make her a threat. Or if she placed a finger on a minor. The man seemed to always be feared the most. Some say women were emotionally crueler than men. Maybe that's the only weapon a woman has. The fact she was emotional and could manipulate. While the man always had his ruthless power aside him. I may be one of the few who hasn't ever used her emotions to get what she wants. I don't think I've ever tried controlling someone this way, not even through lies. Or I'm too emotional for that (makes so much sense). Seven left its footprints and showed me why I should cure my curiosity. Also that you are unable to have a life if you're not apathetical. I'd do anything to become that. No matter what I do or the persons I hang around with, they can't seem to drag me along with the flow. Instead it worsens. The more I'm outside in the world, the hurt I become. From now I am trying to not mix. If someone ever crosses my path, I most likely will listen. Time will then decide whether or not I will stay in touch. I will not personally search for anything nor anyone. I am online daily, for at least an hour. My mum won't believe me when I say I'm not talking to anyone. When she hears me laugh (just things I read), she immediately thinks I'm talking to a guy. She becomes frustrated and is always menacing me to tell my father how I'm more online than talking to her, doing things with her. It's all about her. Hasn't she spent almost 6 decades here? She has seen more things than I ever will, why can't she give me a bit of freedom to do what I want to do, even it's for a short period? My mother is selfish and an egoist. Her strive for the perfect family makes me ill. Her need for us to eat together at the table, or to watch tv together or to go out together. Doing everything together. Even telling my secrets. I personally blame her that I'm always lying as I know she wouldn't cope with the truth. Instead of being happy someone was honest and confided in you, she just angers and makes me feel worse. Those days are history and I don't regret hiding behind tons of fake truths. We aren't a perfect family. If we were, it was fake. It was based on control and fear, we were young but now we're older. We can think. We can see. We have realised. I have realised that a perfect family doesn't exist for me. I got my final order. It took fours days to reach me. I didn't know my mother had them in possession. She took the opportunity to make me talk so I can get the packages. Well, I tried to lie without blinking so she'd believe me. Sometimes I think about someone hurting me (any of those disturbing things) so I will feel pain, instead of falling into laughter. I laugh a lot, even when I'm far from happy. It makes me come out like someone stupid or immature. I think it's an automatic response to cover the realness of the facts. Or I'm nuts, it could be too. It's the first time someone mails out something with my full name written on it, except the other time I wrote a letter addressed to myself. I live in my fantasy. I continued playing my own game, as if someone out there wrote me that letter, expressing their... 'absolute' admiration and adoration of me. I think it's been the most special letter since I had written it myself. Aside of this one (which is not real), Al.'s letters were special as well. Only when I am not counting mine, she would be the one whose letters I admired and loved reading. It shows: I can't throw them away even I stopped reading them after we broke up. I think it's been almost four months. Weird, I'd think it's longer since the last time we exchanged words with each other. I have returning dreams. Water that is. I was outside when a gigantic wave was heading towards us. My mum was standing, screaming, crying. I kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye as I ran away to die somewhere else, alone. There was water coming and no matter what I was about to do there, hide, run etc. it would get me and drown me. That same night I saw that same water with that one purpose again. I only can't remember all details.

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