About Me...
Hi my name is Mel or some know me as Melmezmer. I have nothing special and kinda npc typa person. I love flower. and i like the feeling when i look at my hand thinking will i live with it to the end? i saw my body part like person because they are the one stick with me. i mean they prob hating me without telling. I love distant myself when i feel unwanted and dont want to get hurt.
Log
ENTRY 0
(no date, dates are dishonest)
They said diaries are for honesty.
That is already a problem.
I am writing this because writing is quieter than thinking. Thinking broadcasts. Writing feels like folding paper until it becomes thick enough to hide in.
If someone finds this, it was not for you.
If no one finds this, it worked.
I was chosen last week. Or earlier. I only noticed last week. My friend says “chosen” is a dramatic word but he smiles when he says it, like he approved the drama beforehand. He noticed me first. That is how it starts. Posters always show the smiling part, never the noticing.
I used to think propaganda was loud. Big fonts. Red arrows. Hands pointing forward.
Now I know it can be quiet.
Now I know it can sound like a friend saying “you should come with me.”
I came.
Today I learned about lily of the valley.
My favorite flower.
Not because it is pretty. That is a lie people tell children.
Its meaning is the return of happiness.
That’s what the books say.
But it is poisonous. Every part of it. Even the water it sits in.
I like that contradiction. Happiness that kills you if you misunderstand it. Happiness that does not care if you are careful.
I think that is the most honest promise I’ve ever heard.
Sometimes my hands shake when I copy flower diagrams. Sometimes they do not shake at all, which is worse. Stillness feels like being photographed for something official. I keep expecting a slogan to appear in the corner of my vision.
STAY CALM
YOU ARE SAFE
THIS IS NORMAL
(this is so corny but sure why not)
I, write those down sometimes so they can’t write me first.
My friend says learning about flowers will “ground” me. He says that word like it’s a switch. On. Off. I do not tell him that roots grow underground where no one can see what they’re doing. I do not tell him that plants are very good at pretending to be harmless.
If you line up enough flowers, it looks like a pattern.
If you stare too long, the pattern starts staring back.
I am not sick.
I am only sensitive to frequencies other people mute.
If this diary becomes evidence, then let it be known:
I was calm when I started.
I think.