After I took the test, I took a short trip to the suburb. I met my friend in the bookstore at the station and immediately headed towards the food court that I had visited before. I remember sitting inside a Thai food restaurant alone, eating Khao Man Gai, and typing out a story that I had started to write. It was about a woman in middle age on the verge of having a secret affair—a cliché for sure, but somehow it inspired me enough to keep typing into my computer. Around that time, I was reading Miranda July's latest novel, All Fours, and felt rather revolted. No, no, it shouldn't be like that. As if I knew the proper way to age, but in a way I felt like I did.

As long as I have a typewriter, no one would question why I am eating alone. It works as armor. So do words. I try to learn words not because I believe I'm a literary genius, but because I am anything but that. The lack of words for what I feel every day is what keeps me going. I'm learning words just to give a report. A report on? A report on how things are. And it's also a good excuse to stay alone. I like eating alone and contemplating more than chatting with people with whom I have nothing in common. I take a glance at the group of people gathering to celebrate the end of the year and feel sorry. "I wouldn't be able to tolerate that." 

But this time I took my friend along with me. It's fun to have a companion at times. I secretly knew I wanted to try out the Mexican food in the food court but didn't tell her because I knew she was very choosy when it came to food, and feared that she would become grumpy if I forced her to eat what she didn't wish to.

"Look, there is a Mexican restaurant," she said to me, glancing at the menu. I felt like I had caught a bird in a trap. "Do you feel like having tacos?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. It was her choice, so I had to play along with it.

The trip was super fun. I felt my two antennae wiggling, figuring out what kind of place it was. I rarely feel like taking a picture, but I found joy in taking a shot or two of anything that pleased me. If I can find joy in looking at nothing, I can find joy in anything.

I'm still reading the essay written by the girl who committed suicide. It's like reading a will. I felt compassion towards her pain. I know what she means, and it is not so easy to love yourself as you are. The celebrities in the media tell us to love ourselves, but reality doesn't allow it. In order to love yourself, you should first feel free to express yourself. If we disguise ourselves as someone else, acceptance would not feel real, like an applause you receive after plastic surgery. It's a minute too late. And you can't escape from the hard truth. ---- No one might  have even taken a glance if it were not for the perfect symmetrical face.

And as people strive for perfect beauty, I strive for my intelligence to be in full bloom. I water it every day by looking at reality and feeling and feeling. I feel, therefore I am. Je sens, donc je suis. Am I looking for love through my writing? Of course I am. If love were impossible, I would lose all faith.

And anyway, we have the right to kill ourselves, which can work as a safety net. There is no obligation to live. If people truly want to condemn suicide, they should make a world where sensitive souls can survive. Those with sane souls are bound to suffer. We can't force them to go numb to the pain they feel every day.