This story starts simple. It starts with a boy, an old diary and his free thoughts. It starts with nothing but a low chuckle that slowly blooms into a laugh and his almost annoying voice that tells everyone around him who he is. That he is great, unique, awesome. That he is a person with a personality. He tells a little story of his own with every word he writes. And everyone is able to hear what he is trying to tell the world. But nobody listens. He's just a boy.
He looks so vulnerable, while his laugh echoes through the oh so crowded place. A high pitched sound, lighthearted and somehow annoying. Everybody sees him, the big, maniac-like grin that mocks everyone that passes by, while he believes the world should bow down before him. They look at him, curious, their eyes glistening with everything but honesty the moment they realize he is totally out of his mind. He is insane, the way he laughs, the way he talks about himself with nothing but the chattering of strangers as his background music. It feels like this place is his stage. A stage for an unneeded being. A stage for a person nobody understands.
They don't care about his story, the little fairytale he can tell. Everything they hear are his insane, loud spoken thoughts and everything they see is that big, gleeful grin. And they don't know what to think of this stranger. He is weird. He isn't normal. He is
different. Different than them. And that's the sole reason why they start to laugh, their fingers pointed at him and the book he holds in his hands. He just shakes his head, laughs along, and writes another little poem about himself in the thick diary that holds every secret about him and his own, little world. Then he starts to mumble something about his 'awesome self' they can't catch what he is trying to say. They don't even try. It would make him more human, too human for them. Maybe guilt would seek into their bones if they would try to understand him. And they don't want that.
It's easier to laugh along. Not with him. With them. With all of them. It's so easy to force that horrible, horrible sound. Such a ridiculous thing to do but they do it anyway. Just because it is so much easier. It's easier to be deaf for the things he tells. It's easier to be blind for the wounded look in his eyes. And in comparison: It's so difficult to say an honest opinion. It's so difficult to be yourself. It's difficult to give other people a chance when they don't care about chances. It's so difficult to give him a chance.
Nobody of them is brave enough to stand up, to end it all. End what begun with nothing but a boy and his diary. He just sits there with a grin on his face and lighthearted laughter in the air. And he writes down all the things he wants to say. Every little piece that is worth a memory.
maybe that's a silly thought, he muses. Maybe it's childish of him to think so. Still, he writes, speaks, and tells everyone who he is. But they don't listen. He is a mute storyteller for them. It doesn't matter what his tales are about, every single one of them will die without ever having a chance to bloom. To grow into something that can be wonderful. Beautiful.
It's a sad truth he can't understand. A truth that is beyond his reach. It's so far away that he tries to deny it - he says to himself that it isn't there. That they aren't there. They
and their ungodly smiles. His smile vanishes into nothingness for a moment, the once arrogant grin erased for mere seconds. It returns soon after, but they noticed it, anyway. And they laugh again. Laugh. And laugh. And laugh. They don't stop and maybe that is a good thing, because he can tell himself that they laugh for him, with him. That their smiles are real, not poisonous. He can believe that he is seen, that he matters. That's all he wants, after all. He wants to be noticed.
But there is no one that notices him. So he starts writing again. He picks up the small pencil, the little tool he uses to communicate with the world, even though the world doesn't care about his thoughts. The words he writes, the words he says, are simple. Easy. And while his grin returns, his voice cracks. Somewhere between a low chuckle, somewhere between a high pitched laugh. He asks himself and everyone around him a single question. Because, suddenly, the answer to it isn't there anymore. It's so simple. Such an easy answer, but he is asking himself the same question over and over again.
"I am awesome
They laugh along with it. He is sure they are laughing louder now; their voices are turning hoarse from all these forced sounds. And even though he wants to scream at them that they should tell him the answer immediately, he says no more. He turns silent, completely silent for the first time this day. And one single person turns silent with him, unnoticed by them - because they don't care about things like that. But one single person, and one single person alone, decides that his simple silence is the one that matters. One single person notices that he shouldn't be silent, because he is no silent person to begin with. One single person listens. So, one single person turns away from them and decides to sit beside him instead.
And, just as easy, that one single person smiles at him. A genuine, true smile. It's easy to smile such a friendly smile, the one single person realizes. He looks puzzled for a moment, confused, but there it is again. That slightly arrogant grin. The one single person missed it
But now that it is there again, it's so much easier to look at him. It's easy to see how the wounded look vanishes and turns to one of hope and pride again. Still, the question remains. He asks the one single person the exact same question, over and over again. He wants an answer. He is troubled. He seems lost. And the one single person just laughs a friendly laugh, reaches out and takes the pencil that lies in his hand.
With a swift motion, one single person writes one single word under one single question.
It's one simple answer.
And it's so easy to say it.
It's a simple, single