I never said I am unhappy; I just occasionally feel that life is full of suffering. The world is too sharp, and my body is always covered in bruises. As I write down the pain of this moment, I reflect on whether I am truly suffering or merely complaining without cause. The tug of emotions pulls at the pain in my body, and I wonder if I am a terrible person, if I have really done many wrong things. It seems not. I also crouch down to pet the trembling kitten and catch those who suddenly burst into tears. I strive to be bright, to be gentle, and to ensure that no one feels troubled by me. But why do I always feel buried between desire and helplessness? I hate the damp, gloomy rainy days and the sudden onset of loneliness. They seem to have chosen me, arriving uninvited. It seems I have done nothing wrong, yet just because of my existence, everything feels wrong. Rather than expressing my feelings, I prefer silence; at times, I long to disconnect from the world. I wonder if being unseen would prevent me from being drenched in sadness, if I could breathe peacefully outside the crowd. They say these are just pretentious feelings, typical of an eighteen-year-old’s lyrical affliction. But the unspeakable pain has not ceased to grow just because of silence. Time has not become a remedy; it is merely a slow wind, blowing past events into the present life. I am increasingly wary of overly beautiful moments; happiness makes me feel more guilty than pain, too light, too fleeting, and I dare not hold on tightly. I always seem to lack some luck; life seems to deviate from the path I want to take, crashing into one unexpected storm after another. In the time that has passed, what I once firmly believed in has drifted away into the distant winter. My soul seems to have been born with a touch of pessimism.