Gladia's Confusion

　Truthfully, I don't know what makes a person of me. I don't mind if I have to pick up an interest in something, yet nothing piqued my interest. I care for everything while simultaneously I don't have anything inside my mind. Loving for no reason; hating for no reason. At least I tend to avoid confrontation if I was given a chance. Would that make me a good person to others? I don't remember nor understand myself what separates the good from the bad.

　Or, does it seem like I don't have any principles in life? That could be, but I think it's nearly impossible for one to not have any principles. Even those depressed people have their own principles. That is, to live as miserably as they can and savour the sorrow. I can point that out because I'm exactly at this point, but not really—ah. Now I understand. A friend of mine once said, "sometimes, I can't tell whether you're being serious or joking around." I couldn't either. If I put it in words, every day is a constant battle of pointing out what's wrong inside my mind before immediately squashing all those thoughts altogether because, come on, these can't be right, can they? In fact, every thought is burdensome. Tolling my state …, reducing me to some very form of … what, pathetic person? I don't know what my intentions are. I'm simply moulding one to suit what other people need.

    But, why do so? No reason. It’s nice when I can make people feel good. Both corners of my lips would always tuck itself upwards in response to their satisfaction. At the same time, it’s also suffocating since I never feel happy or proud of myself. Does it mean I hate myself? No, I don’t think so. If I hate myself, I surely wouldn't do all of this cumbersome stuff just because. That means I'm beyond insane. No way I'd prioritise others over me now, wouldn't I?

    And, oh, the amount of pity I have towards this body of mine. Why? Because at this point, I don't identify this thing as even myself. It doesn't represent me—we're one, but disconnected. "Gladia Vergast'' is simply not me. But it is, in fact, me. Can anyone else imagine, I wonder? When you see yourself as some separate being from your living, breathing figure? Can anyone understand the frustration? To live in some frail body, actively destroying all the happiness it can possibly have. What a poor, sincere body. When it gets to eat something good, it will smile widely, almost crying. The way it would bury its face inside its hands when feeling shy. Or, when under the gentle morning sun, it will stretch itself while sighing loudly. Content with the simplicity and mundane life, but also surprisingly resilient against challenges thrown against it.

    By facing such constant turmoil, in the end I prefer to be at peace, horribly lonely. Eating my favourite scrambled egg, basking under the gentle caress of morning sun, and no one to be around. I surely will despise it to the very core of me. I can put no mind to it, but it's so fun: the anger, happiness, curiosity, and frustration—madness, to put it simply. So interesting I want to puke. So disgusting my head hurts so much. How lovely.