Is it a rosy picture I'm painting, Diary? Time flows so ruthlessly. The gatherings... people are probably busy with their gatherings but I know it's not for me. How awkward would it be... "every man brings the most beautiful woman", so what am I going to bring? Or attend one of those "empowering luncheons" hosted by clearly aggressive and resentful women.
I don't know anymore. I'm filled with hatred, too, Diary, but I believe it's a different kind of hate. Maybe not. It feels different. I just can't build rapport like this. I'm boxed in. I feel like I'm boxed in. No matter where I turn, I see no one I can call a friend. No one who has the potential to be a friend.
We want different things, Diary. How come out of so many billions of people, I can't find one similar to me? Yeah, I mean, of course.
Oh God Diary, it's me. It's not anyone, it's me. I think in the end, I am trying to make everything smooth for myself while I'm alive. I am trying. I haven't let go. So many people have fought for, worked for the future of humanity. It's so compelling that it makes me think it's the purpose of life, even though I would never agree otherwise. I know I am extremely, extremely selfish. Live this life and don't care about the next, which is due to the despair caused by what I've seen. But the only people who matter are the ones pushing for continuation.