[

mood

|

jealous

]

I want to be a stand-up comedian. I want to make people laugh. I really really do.

Laughter is magical. When people laugh, everything awful and wrong goes away. I think laughter is something that breaks all the evil curses placed in the world. It is an antidote to every poison. 

To be able to yield laughter would be like being the greatest magician in the world. Too bad I'm so awkward on stage. And I stutter sometimes.

***

I finished the Metamorphosis. I think I sort of became jealous of Kafka the Original, though I didn't like Gregor Samsa very much, because he gave up. Sure, I'm lame most of the time, as well, but I try not to give up. I think if Gregor didn't give up living even as a bug, I would've admired him more. 

But then, if my sister gave up on me, I would very much be tempted to give up... Still, I like my heroes to be more heroic than me. A hero, even after turning into a bug, should be able to laugh about it, or fight it, or something. 

...

I think I'm just bullshitting because I'm so jealous of Me version 1.0... It was so good. I had some good dreams after I read it.

Everything he was trying to say is true. We are all bugs - dirty, ugly, immobile, detached, impossible to communicate with - it's just that we don't know it yet. I'm glad that I agree with me. 

[

mood

|

curious

]

I found this old tattered copy of The Metamorphosis at the store, written by Franz Kafka the original. It felt so surreal to hold that book, as if I was recieving the message from the past me. The past me that I don't know. It was really weird. 

I bought the book, $7.99, (imagine! a sacred message from me in a time capsule, bought with mere 8 bucks!) and it's sitting on my desk now. I feel somewhat afraid to read it. I'm afraid for one reason or another. 

I think I'll start reading it tomorrow. I'm drained out today. 

The funeral was a nightmare.
   Whenever someone dies in my hometown, everyone is invited to the funeral, whether they knew the deceased or not. 

 So absolutely everyone came, dressed up in their best black suits, crying hysterically for an old woman whom they didn’t really know. As usual, standing in front of the modest little casket, the priest solemnly gave the same speech he had been giving since he became a priest: “she was a kind-hearted individual, a wonderful part of our community, and a caring friend. She is now gone, but we will all remember her forever.” 

                      He had no idea whether she really was a kind-hearted individual. 
                          She was not a part of our community at all, and she didn’t have any friends. 

                            And we would forget all about her and this funeral and her toothless smile 
                            and her knitting needles as soon as the ceremony was over. 
                      It was just a whole load of gibberish, anyway,
                                    and I felt humiliated, as someone who loved his grandmother lots.

                               Anyways. I'm back! I can't believe I missed the costume party, though...

[

mood

|

ecstatic

]

It's all strangely life-affirming.

Things die and then rot and then start to stink, of course. And it's terrifying, this awful prospect of death. It feels like I uncovered in the forest of literature, my mortality. My mortality - our mortality - came to reality in this nightly quest.

But my heart still beats. And there are those around me, whose hearts also beat. We dig together, we run together, we breathe together, we laugh together, we have tea together, and we are together. Together. Together. We are together, because we are all so alone, and because we are all so mortal. We are together because we all feel frightened and a little sick. Together. 

So fuck angst. I am so fucking happy because I am never truly alone and am going to die and rot, like everyone else. I, for the first time in my life, don't feel afraid of death. It's a triumph, in a way.

I wonder what happened to that girl. I wonder what marked the end of her life. 

[

mood

|

gloomy

]

There is a big moth that keeps trying to come in to my room where the light is. Moths love the light. It's a shame, because they belong to the night where light doesn't exist. Maybe they never liked the night, but have to live in it anyway. They are always trying to flee the darkness like cowards. Psh. Escapists.

They'll die if they come too close to the light, but they keep running into it anyway. Oh, the irony! 
The night! The escapism! The moths!

It's absurd and stupid. Yes. But I already knew that bugs are absurd and stupid. That's why I like bugs - they remind me of me, and others, and everyone.

We all have a place to be, but sometimes (most of the time) we forget about all that. We are never satisfied with where we are, and we always try to attain the unattainable light that might destroy us. We all just have to realize that before it's too late.

I won't let you in, moth, because it's always best to stay where you belong - so go away.

p.s. the stupid girl ghost from the library came to my room earlier today, and she decided that she's never going to leave me alone. She keeps sobbing like a creep, and I really think I should do something about her despite my decision to stop seeing ghosts. She's too annoying. 

So: Anyone want to come with me and Blake to check out that weird spot on the library wall?

[

mood

|

okay

]

Today, I went to the library and met a ghost. I often do since I was young, which is strange. It must be because I'm a Kafka reincarnated. 

She had this long white robe thingie, and she was trying to tell me something. She gestured to me to follow her, and so I did. These ghosts figure out that I can see them, and then they try to use me. Which I don't mind, because they really need some help. 

I followed her to the french literature section, and she pointed at this piece of barren wall that was lighter than the rest of the wall.

I thought, wow, talk about cliche ghost stories. 

So I asked her what she wanted me to do about it, and she just went away. I was sure her corpse was buried in that wall, and went to the librarian. I asked her whether a girl was ever murdered in this school. She said that - in a Chinese accent - she was just a volunteer and knew nothing of that sort. I thought about researching the school's history, but decided against it. She didn't tell me to do anything about it. Usually ghosts are more talkative, but she failed to communicate to me what she wanted from me. 

And I should sort of stop seeing these spirits, anyway, if I wanted to fit in with the normal crowd and be near "her." I think I'll join the school newspaper this year - I like writing. I like writing more than seeing ghosts.