Schoolgirl

Все виды пугающих сожалений объединились в одно в моём разуме, пока я бьюсь в агонии, моё сердце замирает.

I wonder if there are people who don't lie. If there are, they must always be losers.

Given my lack of experience, if my books were taken away from me, I would be utterly devastated. That's how much I depend on what's written in books.

Good night. I'm Cinderella without her prince. Do you know where to find me in Tokyo? You won't see me again.

If you were to point to a faraway mountain and say, If you can make it there, it's a pretty good view, I'd see that there's not an ounce of untruth to what you tell us. But when you say, Well, bear with it just a little longer, if you can make it to the top of that mountain, you'll have done it, you are ignoring the fact that we are suffering from a terrible stomachache—right now.

Crouching as I scrubbed, I smiled softly at the moon. The moon pretended not to see me.

This was a brilliant idea. A sad, pathetic idea.

Kinko seems to lack any trace of a personality and, as a result, her femininity is at full tilt.

By gestures, I should say that I myself use quite a lot of them. What's more, I employ them slyly to my advantage. I can be so pretentious that it's hard to deal with sometimes. "I overcompensate, so that I become a monstrous little liar ruled by the conventions of poise," I might say, but then, this too is just another pose, so it's hopeless.

There is a certain satisfaction in being dragged around, as well as a separate sad feeling as I watch it happen.

The truth is that I secretly love what seems to be my own individuality, and I hope I always will, but fully embodying it is another matter.

Really, I don't know which is the true me. What ever will I do when there aren't any more books to read, or when I can't find another role model to imitate?

If I were to experience failure upon failure day after day—nothing but total embarrassment—then perhaps I'd develop some semblance of dignity as a result. But no, I would somehow illogically twist even such failures, gloss over them smoothly, so that it would seem like they had a perfectly good theory behind them. And I would have no qualms about putting on a desperate show to do so.

I'll read one book and be completely wild about it—I'll trust it, I'll assimilate it, I'll sympathize with it, I'll try to make it a part of my life. Then, I'll read another book and, instantly, I'll switch over to that one. The sly ability to steal someone else's experience and recreate it as if it were my own is the only real talent I possess.

Ultimately though—since I'm just idle most of the time, and I really don't have any troubles to worry about—I wonder if I am just desensitized to the hundreds if not thousands of things I see and hear everyday, and in my bewilderment, those things end up assailing me like floating ghosts, one after another.

Sometimes, I'd be soaking in the bath and suddenly glimpse my hand. Then, I would become convinced that however many years from now, while soaking in the bath, I will be transported to this moment when a random glance at my hand turned into a stare, and I will remember how it made me feel.

I'd be sitting there, talking to someone. My gaze would wander to a corner of the table and affix itself there, unmoving. Only my mouth would move. At times like these, a strange hallucination always occurs. I would feel absolutely certain that, at some point before, under these very conditions, I've had the same conversation while, in fact, staring at the corner of the table and that what was happening now would continue to go on indefinitely, in exactly the same manner.