I Want To Go On Living Even

We All Live With The Objective Of Being Happy; Our Lives Are All Different And Yet The Same.

It Seems To Me That Later On Neither I Nor Anyone Else Will Be Interested In The Musings Of A Thirteen-year-old Schoolgirl.

But I Won't Bore You Any Longer On The Subject Of Old Men. It Won't Make Things Any Better And All My Plans Of Revenge (such As Disconnecting The Lamp, Shutting The Door, Hiding His Clothes) Must Be Abandoned In Order To Keep The Peace. Oh, I'm Becoming So Sensible!

I Want To Go On Living Even After My Death! And Therefore I Am Grateful To God For This Gift, This Possibility Of Developing Myself And Of Writing, Of Expressing All That Is In Me. I Can Shake Off Everything If I Write; My Sorrows Disappear; My Courage Is Reborn. But, And That Is The Great Question, Will I Ever Be Able To Write Anything Great, Will I Ever Become A Journalist Or A Writer?

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.