Schoolgirl

I felt like trying to cry. I held my breath for a good while, in order to make my eyes bloodshot, and I thought I might be able to squeeze out a tear, but it was no good.

In my heart, I worry about Mother and want to be a good daughter, but my words and actions are nothing more than that of a spoiled child. And lately, there hasn't been a single redeeming quality about this childlike me.

Even my mother says I have unremarkable eyes. You might say that there is no light in them. They're like lumps of charcoal—it's that unfortunate. See what I mean? It's dreadful. When I see them in the mirror—every time—I think to myself, I wish I had nice eyes that sparkled softly. Eyes like a deep blue lake, or eyes that look as if they reflect the big sky that you might look up at while lying in a lush green meadow, with clouds floating by every so often. You might even see the shadow of birds in them. I hope I meet lots of people with lovely eyes.

Sometimes happiness arrives one night too late. The thought occurred to me as I lay there. You wait and wait for happiness, and when finally you can't bear it any longer, you rush out of the house, only to hear later that a marvelous happiness arrived the following day at the home you had abandoned, and now it was too late. Sometimes happiness arrives one night too late. Happiness...

I felt so wretched I wanted to cry. Mother, I'm an adult now. I know all about the world now. Don't worry, you can talk to me about anything. If you were to confide everything to me, even things like our household budget, telling me exactly how it is, then I certainly wouldn't pester you to buy me shoes. I'll be a steady and frugal daughter. Really and truly.

I'll read one book and be completely wild about it-Ill trust it, Ill assimilate it, Ill sympathize with it, Ill try to make it a part of my life. Then, Ill read another book and, instantly, I'll switch over to that one. The sly ability to steal someone else's experience and recreate it as if it were my own is the only real talent I possess.

As I hoisted it, I was startled to hear myself exclaim, Alley-oop! I have never thought that I was the kind of girl who would utter such an unrefined expression as "Alley- oop." It seems like the kind of thing an old lady would shout"Alley-oop!" It's disgusting. Why would I have said such a thing? It's as if there were an old lady somewhere inside of me, and it makes me sick. I'll have to be careful from now on. I became deeply depressed then, like the time I was repelled by a stranger's uncouth gait only to realize I was walking in exactly the same manner.

Mornings seem forced to me. So much sadness rises up, I cant bear it. I hate it, I really do. I'm an awful sight in the morning. My legs feel so exhausted that, already, I don't want to do a thing. I wonder if i's because don't sleep well. I's a lie when they say you feel healthy in the morning Mornings are grey. Always the same. Absolutely empty. Lying in bed each morning, I'm always so pessimistic. It's awful, really. AIl kinds of terrible regrets converge at once in my mind, and my heart stops up as I writhe in agony.

everyone loves the place where they were born. I felt bored.

Tomorrow will probably be another day like today. Happiness will never come my way. I know that. But it's probably best to go to sleep believing that it will surely come, tomorrow it will come. I purposely made a loud thump as I fell into bed. Ah, that feels good. The futon was cool, just the right temperature against my back, and it was simply delightful. Sometimes happiness arrives one night too late. The thought occurred to me as I lay there. You wait and wait for happiness, and when finally you can't bear it any longer, you rush out of the house, only to hear later that a marvelous happiness arrived the following day at the home you had abandoned, and now it was too late. Sometimes happiness arrives one night too late. Happiness...

Nobody in the world understood our suffering. In time, when we became adults, we might look back on this pain and and loneliness as a funny thing, perfectly ordinary, but-but how were we expected to get by, to get through this interminable period of time until that point when we were adults?

To break free from this vexatious and awful never-ending cycle, this flood of outrageous thoughts, and to long for nothing more than simply to sleephow clean, how pure, the mere thought of it is exhilarating.

As always happens, while I was busy preparing the meal and adding things here and there, I was overcome with an extreme emptiness. I felt depressed, and dead tired. I lapsed into overload from all my effort. Nothing mattered anymore. In the end, who cares?! I told myself desperately and, no longer concerned with taste or appearance, I flung things about in a messy clatter.

I want to be a good daughter whose feelings are in perfect sync with Mother's, and just because of that, I go to these absurd lengths to please her. The best thing would be if Mother could just intuit how I felt, without my saying anything, and she could rest easy. No matter how selfish I am, I will never do anything to make myself a laughingstock even in my pain and loneliness I will still protect what is important. Since I love Mother and this house so very dearly, she should have absolute confidence in me, and just be carefree and relaxed. I will make sure to do a good job. I will keep my nose to the grindstone. It would be my greatest pleasureit's the way I should be living anyway.

"From now on, the joy in life is gone. Forgive me for saying, but when I look at you, the truth is, I don't feel much pleasure. Without your father, perhaps it's best if there is no happiness”

Why is it that we cannot be happy with ourself or love only ourself throughout our life? It is pathetic to watch whatever emotions or sense of reason I have acquired up to that point be devoured by instinct.

Really, I don't know which is the true me. What ever will I do when there aren't any more books to read, or when I can't find another role model to imitate? Probably just wither away, helpless and sniveling profusely.

Given my lack of experience, if my books were taken away from me, I would be utterly devastated. That's how much I depend on what's written in books. I’ll read one book and be completely wild about it-Ill trust it, I'll assimilate it, I’ll sympathize with it, I’ll try to make it a part of my ife. Then, l read another book and, instantly, l switch over to that one.

All kinds of terrible regrets converge at once in my mind, and my heart stops up as I writhe in agony.