the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
ผู้แต่ง
athanasia(อาธานาเซีย)เรื่องย่อ
the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
ตะวันตก,เรื่องสั้น,เล่าประสบการณ์,อื่นๆ,ชีวิต ,ชีวิตประจำวัน,ชีวิตประ,ปรัชญา,plotteller, ploteller, plotteler,พล็อตเทลเลอร์, แอพแพนด้าแดง, แพนด้าแดง, พล็อตเทลเลอร์, รี้ดอะไร้ต์,รีดอะไรท์,รี้ดอะไรท์,รี้ดอะไร, tunwalai , ธัญวลัย, dek-d, เด็กดี, นิยายเด็กดี ,นิยายออนไลน์,อ่านนิยาย,นิยาย,อ่านนิยายออนไลน์,นักเขียน,นักอ่าน,งานเขียน,บทความ,เรื่องสั้น,ฟิค,แต่งฟิค,แต่งนิยาย
The Diary Awaiting Oblivion (ENG)
the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
This morning i woke earlier than usual. the mist outside was pierced by streaks of pale light
the sky divided into faded violet and honeyed gold, and the call of birds announced the day’s arrival
i dressed and went out for a walk, my steps slow, until I found myself at the village market — a place alive with voices
some shouted for customers, others fussed over their stalls, coffee was being brewed to wake the weary, and conversations drifted to politics
the air itself brimmed with life, enlivening my own spirit in a way words struggle to capture
I wandered among the stalls, finding old sweets I had not seen in years. bought a little of each — enough for myself and for my dad
back home, i set the food before dad’s door and sent him a message
then returned to my room, washed away the smell of smoke, and settled with The Picture of Dorian Gray on the sofa by the shelves,
nibbling sweets as i read , time slipped by unnoticed
when i laid the book aside, afternoon had already come
i sat at my desk and began writing once more
though the morning had begun differently, the day still circled back to its usual pattern
not because i had no choice — but because even when i chose, there was still no way out…
or perhaps the opposite is true... perhaps i simply enjoy the cycle, repeating it endlessly, whispering to myself
“There is no escape”
night arrived, the clock striking midnight.
i kept writing, now by the glow of a single lamp. whe words flowed more easily than before — not from clarity, but because fatigue dulled the voices of argument in my head
“it’s time for bed…” i murmured,
closing the screen. bathed, changed into my robe, removed my lenses, slipped on my glasses, dried my hair. yet when I lay down, sleep would not come
“at times I wish I were a machine,” i muttered inwardly.
the drowsiness fled, leaving me alone with restless thoughts
i reached for the notebook beside my bed and began writing again
with every word set down, another thought rose to the surface:
sorrows — that made me want to cry,
shame — that made me wish to drink away memory,
anger — that clenched my teeth until my jaw ached,
joy — that made me smile until my cheeks hurt, even in solitude
yet no matter how many thoughts came, they lived only in my mind.
no matter how vivid the imagination, they were nothing more than moments already gone
so i recorded the day, arranging memories carefully as if upon a stage.
though i swore not to lie or embellish,
i still could not resist polishing them with ornamented words, as if decorating a hall with borrowed art, and naming it “A Day in My Life” — deceiving both myself and any reader, into believing it was the truth
and with that, sleep became all the harder
why is it, i wonder…
that a day beginning with sunlight and birdsong
must always end with a question?