It Won't Take Long Before

They Mustn't Know My Despair, I Can't Let Them See The Wounds Which They Have Caused, I Couldn't Bear Their Sympathy And Their Kind-hearted Jokes, It Would Only Make Me Want To Scream All The More. If I Talk, Everyone Thinks I'm Showing Off; When I'm Silent They Think I'm Ridiculous; Rude If I Answer, Sly If I Get A Good Idea, Lazy If I'm Tired, Selfish If I Eat A Mouthful More Than I Should, Stupid, Cowardly, Crafty, Etc. Etc.

We’re All Alive, But We Don’t Know Why Or What For; We’re All Searching For Happiness; We’re All Leading Lives Which Are Different And Yet The Same.

Yes, There Is No Doubt That Paper Is Patient And As I Don't Intend To Show This Cardboard-covered Notebook, Bearing The Proud Name Of "diary," To Anyone, Unless I Find A Real Friend, Boy Or Girl, Probably Nobody Cares. And Now I Come To The Root Of The Matter, The Reason For My Starting A Diary: It Is That I Have No Such Real Friend.

Ordinary People Simply Don't Know What Books Mean To Us, Shut Up Here. Reading, Learning, And The Radio Are Our Amusements.

What Is Done Cannot Be Undone, But One Can Prevent It Happening Again