From my private notebook:

At first, they tell you that everything'd work out.

That you'd fit into a frame of expectations, high hopes threaded meticulously into your name.

Then you'd hear their light, flitting wishes as they'd call out your name.

It's like an investment: they pay in decibels and hues of tone, waiting for your ambitious, guilt-ridden heart to spin out a list of accomplishments. But sometimes you don't fit into the frame- your fingers can't stretch far enough to accommodate the ivories of whites and blacks; your legs and arms work into a frenzy as the beats of crochets and minims clamber upon your clammy heart; your vocals can't pierce through the gentle breeze like the melodious ballad of a nightingale.

And through countless resizing and resetting of the frames, you feel the last of your breath taken, squeezed out of you, the leatherbound hopes working you to your last gasp- a wheeze painfully working its way out of your despair-ridden bones.

I can't breathe.



Can you hear that? It's the sound of my respect level for you plummeting to the seabed with a disappointing thud.

I've just realised that I don't know people.

So many things popping up around me and.

I can't believe.

People actually miss me, from primary school.

Why?

I'm not anything.
I'm worse than that.

I'm a wreck-ball.

You might tell me that I'm important, that I've changed people's lives. I've made an impact, so I am important.

No, let me tell you.

I've hurt people.

Emotionally, physically, secretly.

I've hurt them, even to their face.

I think that's why I hate myself so much. I really do.

 There's a pang of regret and pain and hurt, every single time I remember things from primary school.

Because I remember exactly how I hurt them.

I remember how I was hurt.

How I hurt myself.

I wish I didn't hurt anyone. It makes me feel less guilty.

But I know that I have hurt people. Very bad.

It's only when I look back, when I see what I did.

What I said.

How I hurt people, intentionally, purposely.

I was selfish. I am selfish, still.

I don't know.

I'm a constant jumble of hurt and hurting.

I am selfish in saying people hurt me, because I know I hurt them.

I know that the hurt was mostly self-inflicted.

I caused everything. I caused hurt to them.

I hurt myself.

I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. I don't.

I've changed people's lives.

I've hurt them so bad that I completely changed their lives.

You don't know this guilt I feel. This secret guilt I've been having in my heart. That I hurt someone so bad. And the person trusted me. I can't believe.

My only consolation? I'm getting the hurt I deserve in return.

I don't know. I'm a bouncing ball of contradiction. I love myself. I love being me. But I hate myself too. I hate being me. Earphones in, world out.

Hurt never goes out. It comes out every single time when you'd least expect it.

I don't know why people want to be friends with me. I always end up hurting people. I always do.

I should put a limit on the number of friends I have.

I shouldn't have friends.

I've caused enough hurt.

I'm not going to bother hiding these anymore. There's no point. It's a big warning about how I am dangerous and how I shouldn't be allowed to exist. But if I continue living on, I'll get the hurt I deserve, won't I?