Lioras - 13 Years Old - Diary
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The wind was swift today, striking everything in its path with purpose. It felt primal—angry, hungry—like something not seen since the days of stillness. Back when the land was calm, and peace was just how life was.
I don't remember the wind ever being this powerful. It used to feel small. Weak. Insignificant. So why—why today—do you roar with such intensity that the cliffs beneath me crack from your rage?
I ask myself sometimes: who am I? Why am I the way I am? Why does everyone around me think and see the world so differently?
Mother always said I was smart. But she never told me the cost of that.
To be a genius is a gift. But to have a gift is a curse no one talks about. It can feel lonely. It can make you mad.
To be loved, to be cared for—but never truly seen… That's not something I wanted. I didn't ask for it. I never wanted to be different. I would've been happy being average.
Hah… there I go again. Idiot. Talking to myself like someone's listening.
I mean, who would care to hear the story of Lioras Brune? A boy from the planet Pamarthe. A boy with no future, despite his so-called genius. A boy who grew up too fast, and still knows nothing.
Would you read that story? Would you care? Would you listen to his pain, his struggle, his truth?
…Exactly. Why would you?
My story will be the same as the person next to me. I'll live. I'll laugh. I'll struggle. And then I'll die.
You're probably wondering why a thirteen-year-old sounds this dark. Why I'm not bright and innocent like a child should be.
Well… maybe that's why I'm different. Why I don't care. Why I'm so quiet.
Because in silence, I find strength. And in strength, I find reality.
Not life. Not death. The middle.
The part no one talks about. The part that bores them. The journey.
You don't know what I mean, do you? I guess I should explain.
People say they love books. But I think they only love the beginning and the end. Most don't care about the middle. They just want the thrill—the spike of adrenaline. They can't handle the quiet. The struggle. The darkness between life and death.
Sometimes I wonder if there's more. If I'm missing something.
When I look out from these mountains, down to the raging blue sea, I wonder if I could be more than what I believe. If there's something inside me besides this darkness— Even when I'm surrounded by the light of the people I love.
Is there really no escape from this reality? Is this my destiny? To be a nobody? To live on this lonely island where my family has stayed for generations?
Is it wrong to want more? To finally be seen?
Is that wrong?
I wish I could be normal. That I could let go of this darkness. That I could be seen—truly seen—on this land.
But that's not my reality. It never was.
So when you read this, and you wonder why there's so much pain in my words, Why there's so much longing for something I can never have— It's because I've learned I'll never be more than the limits this universe gave me.
I was never meant to be a hero. Never meant to be a villain. Never meant to be anything more than a working-class nobody.
I hate that. I hate what I am. I hate that my future is already written. I hate that I can't accept it like the rest of my family. Like the rest of this universe.
But I can't. I won't. I deny it with every breath in my body.
So don't read this and think I'm smart. Don't read this and think I'm evil. Don't read this and think anything at all.
I am nothing. A null.
I have the power to grow, but in the end, I'll leave no mark. No value. No legacy.
So remember this:
You don't know who I am. And you never will.
And that, my friend, is the journey I live. The journey no one cares for. The journey that will bore most.
I need to go now. My family's calling—probably to help Dad or one of my brothers. Who knows.
But I know this: As much as I hate it…
This is my reality.
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