Times New Roman
-October 13, 2012-

You wouldn’t think about me, I’m sure. I mean, there’s no one really who knows that I exist. I’m a blip on the earth, a smudge on the eternal universe, so why do I matter? What is so special about me? I will provide you with one solid answer to that question. No one matters. So, if you use common factual logic you could reason that if no one in the world matters, and I am a person in the world, then I do not matter. It’s deductive reasoning. So simple. So furiously simple. But this diary is important to my mother. She wants me to write things in it that mean something. I think, and this is a pessimistic conclusion at best, that she wants to turn me into a writer. What a horrid thought! I have read the things that she has written and they are all terribly illogical and such. I don’t think I can even write this journal entry structured to my fancy. So, if I end up like Anne Frank, I would like to apologize for the lack of organization that certainly will follow. Writing is quite an arbitrary process. There are no proofs or equations behind it, just the thoughts and musings of the human mind. And if you know anything about the human mind, you will know that it is riddled with misconceptions and emotional blockades to academic success. I assume that is why emotion comes out so much in the writing of the average man, he has no equations to lean on so he is vulnerable, and when he is vulnerable he only feels the need to write even more. You see, this is a terribly destructive cycle, much like alcoholism at best. And I mean that seriously. Writers are ignorant fools who would be better off with geometry than with writing. But yet they write. If once a writer, then always a writer. And that has been proven true.

Cordially,

Chiara










-October 18, 2012-
What do you mean you won’t let me come? You are the worst mother in the world. She just stared at me like I was nothing. You’re going to leave me here all by myself with no one to talk too? How long is this trip of yours going to be? How long are you leaving me here all by myself? Is this what I mean to you? Nothing. I’m sure that I mean nothing to you.
But you’re always complaining we won’t let you alone, Chiara, you say that we don’t understand you, that you should be left alone with your equations that we can’t solve because you don’t care about anything Chiara. You don’t.
But who will drive me to school? Are you two going on vacation? In October. Are you idiots? There is no reason to vacation in October because October is not when you vacation. You vacation in July. The month of heat and summer breezes. Where are you going?
Does there have to be a reason for everything? I’m sure that there does.
You’re absolutely right. You’re right about that.
Thank goodness, I’m right.
Because, you know, that means everything.
Yes.


















-October 19, 2012-
They left me with eighteen microwave omelets, a few cans of soup, and several legions of vegetables. When I was littler, younger, less experienced, less organized, I made them into animals with beans for eyes. Horses, cows, chickens, the dog that I wanted- I never got it-that’s what they were. The toys, I used to have plenty, but I burned them when I came to understand all sensible things and reality. And so as I sit munching on lettuce that I believe I will have to apportion to one leaf per day, I start seeing the leaves a little differently. Maybe it’s a blanket. For the red-pepper hound. And I don’t like myself for thinking this. Because it doesn’t matter.













-October 20, 2012-
Every day, I drive my father’s BMW to school at 6 in the morning, so that I can work with Dr. Oki. He says that next year he thinks I will know as much math as the average architectural engineer or theoretical physicist. He shakes his head at me, like he can’t understand why I am who I am, because I sit in class and I can’t do the calculus but in the morning I can do anything in the world. My mother hates my father’s car. She doesn’t like thinking about how wealthy we are, because she doesn’t want to accept that nothing she does has a purpose anymore. It just reminds her that no matter how much she pays the publisher they won’t publish anything she’s written. It means nothing, because she’s so rich. Because she doesn’t have to.



















-October 21, 2012-
Our house has walls. Many walls. I sit all by myself inside it, and it feels large. The ground is cold as I sit on it. Hard. I sit on the ground because the ground is the best place for me to think. The ground is stimulating. Discomfort. It is probably the best for me in the long run. Later, I will be comfortable. But for now, I sit on the ground. For some reason.
It is beautiful here in my house. It has large arches that sweep over my head. I do not feel worthy of this house because it is so beautiful. Sometimes, I start to think that I don’t really matter. And sometimes I don’t.



















October 22, 2012
What do you mean we’re moving?
Who do you think you are, my mother?
She shifted from foot to foot.
Why do you think your father and I have been going away so much?
I had assumed for some stimulating activity such as sipping pina colada in a tropical nation.
To New York City, because that’s where we’re moving.
My body heated up, and I doubled over, puking instantly. These things happen you know.
My mother held my shoulders, not even flinching as our soft carpets became acid-stained and putrid yellow.
For this very reason Chiara.
And I just sat there, not able to function, rocking back and forth, holding my knees to my chest, trying desperately to pinpoint the problem, to diagnose the issue. Change.
Oh that reason.












October 23, 2012
Dr. Oki called me today. He wanted to say goodbye. There will be no teachers like him in Manhattan. Deductive reasoning. There is a proof.