Leave Me In Peace, Let

Writing In A Diary Is A Really Strange Experience For Someone Like Me. Not Only Because I’ve Never Written Anything Before, But Also Because It Seems To Me That Later On Neither I Nor Anyone Else Will Be Interested In The Musings Of A Thirteen-year Old School Girl. Oh Well, It Doesn’t Matter. I Feel Like Writing.

Outside, You Don't Hear A Single Bird, And A Deathly, Oppressive Silence Hangs Over The House And Clings To Me As If It Were Going To Drag Me Into The Deepest Regions Of The Underworld.... I Wander From Room To Room, Climb Up And Down The Stairs And Feel Like A Songbird Whose Wings Have Been Ripped Off And Who Keeps Hurling Itself Against The Bars Of Its Dark Cage.

I Want Friends, Not Admirers. People Who Respect Me For My Character And My Deeds, Not My Flattering Smile. The Circle Around Me Would Be Much Smaller, But What Does That Matter, As Long As They're Sincere?

They Mustn't Know My Despair, I Can't Let Them See The Wounds Which They Have Caused, I Couldn't Bear Their Sympathy And Their Kind-hearted Jokes, It Would Only Make Me Want To Scream All The More. If I Talk, Everyone Thinks I'm Showing Off; When I'm Silent They Think I'm Ridiculous; Rude If I Answer, Sly If I Get A Good Idea, Lazy If I'm Tired, Selfish If I Eat A Mouthful More Than I Should, Stupid, Cowardly, Crafty, Etc. Etc.

Because Only Then Does One Feel That All Is As It Should Be And That God Wishes To See People Happy, Amidst The Simple Beauty Of Nature. I Firmly Believe That Nature Brings Solace In All Troubles.