Sometimes, I feel like I could wash the world away with my tears—but then I realize how simple, unnecessary, and even bad those tears are. As if I'm being dramatic about everything in life… Maybe I am. I don't know, but even deciding to write this book feels like a huge achievement for me.
Honestly, nothing particularly noteworthy has happened in my life. I'm 18 years old right now, and while my peers are achieving amazing things, I'm just sitting at home like an old lady, doing nothing… or maybe I just can't do anything.
I feel like a worn-out, forgotten piece of ragged clothing, tossed in a corner. I haven't contacted any of my friends for over a month or two because I feel like I'm not worthy of them.
Every time I see someone as a true friend and offer them my full loyalty, they end up slipping through my fingers and turning into a memory.
Back then, I couldn't understand why—but I now see two possibilities. One: it was completely my fault. The second: it's a common problem shared by everyone in this century, in this era… that people see themselves as unworthy. And when someone offers them unconditional love, they become suspicious of it, thinking the person giving it must be strange, so they push them away.
In truth, the only "fault" of the one giving love is opening their heart completely and expecting the same love and respect in return. I've made this mistake my whole life. I couldn't see the void people had fallen into. That's why I've always ended up alone. People aren't used to sincerity. And I—I carry it in abundance.
It was like trying to stitch a low-quality fabric with high-quality thread. In the end, the fabric would tear, and the thread would fall into the void.
Everyone complains about the end of humanity, but no one looks at themselves. I don't say this with bad intent. I just think that if everyone tried to change and improve themselves instead of trying to change the world... maybe... the world could become a somewhat decent place. Not just a place to tolerate, but a home to actually live in.
If people approached others like me—those who feel the need to isolate themselves from society—with love and understanding? Then maybe the number of people who feel like a "broken machine" or a "bookstore with no good books to sell" would quickly start to decrease—like a skier racing downhill.
One thing I've realized since gaining this awareness is the obsession with perfection. So many people glue their bleeding wounds together with the adhesive of perfection, just to appear flawless from the outside.
These people are actually sad souls who've given up on themselves just to give others the illusion that "my life is better than yours."
They are like little children silently crying, "see me!"—unable to make sense of their own feelings. Instead of locking that inner child in a dark, damp room, they need to hug them with love.
By doing so—by making peace with themselves and approaching themselves with kindness—they can begin to help others who can't heal their own wounds.
I'm not saying that people who can't heal themselves aren't "good enough." What I mean is this:
Every person has been wounded and healed at some point in life. Like someone scraping their knee while running. But some wounds get hit with tiny stones or things that deepen the injury, and those wounds never fully heal. In such cases, getting help is necessary—and that's not a bad thing.
On the contrary, it's like a weary soul that has stayed strong for too long finally lying down for a peaceful sleep.
And going to therapy or seeing a psychiatrist is the beautiful dream seen during that sleep.
Contrary to popular belief, I don't think getting professional help is bad at all. Getting help doesn't label you as crazy, weird, or broken.
Those who try to label you are actually waves crashing and sinking ships while trying to find a way out of their own stormy world... They hurt others, but deep down, I believe they carry guilt for each person they've harmed.
However, since they can't even admit those feelings to themselves, they're not even aware of it.