I Want To Write, But More Than

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.

Why Can't People Live With Each Other In Peace? Why Must Everything Be Destroyed? Why Must People Go Hungry While Surplus Food Elsewhere In The World Rots Away? Oh Why Must People Be So Crazy?

It Won't Take Long Before I Explode With Pent-up Rage.

If I'm Engrossed In A Book, I Have To Rearrange My Thoughts Before I Can Mingle With Other People, Because Otherwise They Might Think I Was Strange.

Another Fact That Doesn't Exactly Brighten Up Our Days Is That Mr. Van Maaren, The Man Who Works In The Warehouse, Is Getting Suspicious About The Annex.