April 30th 1945

Dear Diary,

Or shall I call you friend? Psychiatrist? Well, your choice, but one way or another you’ve helped me before, so I beg you to do it again. It’s currently midnight and I cannot sleep. Yesterday I couldn’t sleep and so the day before yesterday. I come and sit here, looking at this wall in which you see bricks and in which I see the door to my freedom, a world. Imagine how I feel, seeing a world, even creating one to the very last detail and having to be here. Why would I stay here if I could go to a world whereflowers can be made out of their own smell and trees out of cotton candy. A world where clouds would be red (because everyone loves red) and you could break every law of physics so pigs could finally fly and you can just take a nap on your ceiling.It’s neither day nor night. In this world you could finally reach the end of the rainbow and instead of finding a big pot of gold you will find a library, because in the end that’s what it’s all about, reading that good book that will make you laugh and then cry. This world is all about books that make you feel. That makeyou aware about the sun’s new haircut or about the moon’s new glasses. It’s a fantasy only if you want it to be one, you can still look at the sky and shout:

“Goddamn I like your new shirt”

Because these are the moments you value, the ones you spend in your own mind and in nature’s heart. 

It’s not that I can’t sleep, I don’t want to. I stand here, in this torn up town and in my torn up house, in front of the last thing standing and even that, is held up by my hopes and dreams.

I am desperate to go to this wonderful place, I can see it. I can smell it. I can hear it. Oh God I think I can touch it. Even if my name isn’t Alice and this isn’t Wonderland, maybe someone could write about me going to Wall-land.

I will write until I cannot whisper anymore, my heart will dictate where the pen will go. My grief is my castle from which I fly and my pain is my own which I kiss away, I cry my rivers in which I drown and lose my mind in which I’m trapped. I listen to nature’s heartbeat and to my thoughts whirling around my mind. My intentions aren’t to brag, but to tell you what life really is, before it’s over.

Life is love and freedom, different is good and weird is normal. This is the place where we should be, a place where the notion of being ugly doesn’t exist. Where everyone feels worth-it and everything feels alive. Where trees are life(love and freedom).Where every color is a sound an every sound is a color. Where people do not judge they just appreciate. What if everything could change, really quick? What if we saw flowers and rainbows everywhere, what if the sun was half moon and the moon was half sun? Would we still behave like animals or chase after earthly things ?

No land was ever acquired honestly on this earth. But the place I see is mine, it feels me and I feel it . WE are one, we share thoughts, feelings and we share pain. We cried the rivers and tossed bad thoughts away. We helped each other like no one else could, we built each other up.

I am so sorry to be the one to tell you about this horrible incident. Let’s be honest, you probably blame me for what happened. The abominable Death, well just so you know I don’t take the people I want because if it were so, this war would have found his end before it even began. After all, it gives me more work to do and makes my rivers flow too. I have to take the smart and strong not the dumb and stupid. Our friend here was special, too bad it was too overwhelming for him. But whoever reads this, if this diary doesn’t burn or get buried under some bricks and dust, shall not cry about this death and shall not feel grief for this loss. Our friend, and I call him that because we have known each other for a long time, I am cursed to see them evolve( I’m talking about the ones that are going to die) I see them grow up, discover the smell, the taste and the sound and after a while they discover their knowledge and how much they are capable of. Many do not resist over their teenage years or past their 20s. But the ones that survive their mind, the ones that surpass their fears, are destroyed by the time I come, so destroyed I sometimes wonder how they lasted so much. But these ones, the survivors, leave knowledge and understanding of things you don’t even see, yet. But back to our friend. He was so very special, he saw everything, but he just thought he was just going crazy, that it wasn’t true. It was all true and now, he found out, he is there.

If I am already writing this why not leave a piece of my knowledge, in case this would be readable when you find it. It is so beautiful, the way humans express themselves. Talking is so overrated. Haven’t you seen what some do with art? What they do with singing and writing? Didn’t you see how all these artists or gifted ones, I prefer to call them, pain, write, draw, sing, sculpt( or do whatever to express themselves) what they imagine in so much detail and what is real in so few. Artists love to imagine and feel even when there is nothing to see or touch. Thoughts are whirling around their head like crazy, thay don't feel special, they feel like they've gone mad. Take care of your specia onesbefore it is to late for them! I, the abominable Death you fear so much, can be stopped! Please try to stop me! Save the special ones and give me the bad ones! I beg you.

I should go now, the war is calling my name.