And now for something completely different.

This chapter, and possibly a few following it, will be different from anything I've ever written and posted. I'm all up for criteria on my newest 'experiment', so go on ahead and offer some when you're done reading.

CHAPTER NINE - - - - - - - - - -

Tuesday, March 15

Some people draw. Others sing, or play instruments. Me? I write. I always have. Not letters or little notes, but vignettes and poems. Sigmund Freud would probably tell me that it's my way of expressing myself: that I've spent so much of my life building up a wall between my soul and the rest of the world, that I have no idea how to even talk to even myself properly. Tch. Whatever.

The point is, I write. I'm introspective, I'm private, and I write.

That said, my sudden decision to record my life in my notebook was NOT brought on by the guidance teacher.

Oh, look at that. I can even lie to myself convincingly. I concede a point to Freud.

This... diary... is the result of a class-long lecture about 'knowing oneself and one's place in life.' Believe me, if I had had a choice in the matter, I wouldn't be doing this at all. But I didn't have a choice, and so now I, along with my fellow guidance sufferers, are being forced to keep a diary. Yes, a diary. How demeaning.

'Two entries per week, three pages each at the minimum, but you're more than welcome to write more! I'll be checking through what you've done every few days, but don't worry, I won't read anything, just make sure you've done what I asked!' The buffoon of an instructor seems to think this is some sort of fun activity.

Moron.

In any case, I refuse to address you as 'Dear Diary'. It is a clichéd and unnecessary phrase, and the date suffices just fine as a heading, thank you very much.

Got it? Good.

Now, where to begin...?

My classmates are beginning to catch on. It took them a little longer than usual, but they've finally figured out that I have no wish to associate with them. They no longer come up to me in pitiful attempts to engage me in conversation, and they have ceased to flirt with me. That is an improvement. Not necessarily good (good would be the aspiring seducers dropping off the face of the planet), but an improvement.

Let's see now... Excitement over the soccer team has pretty much died, which is a welcome contrast from yesterday's clustering, crushing mobs, but I expect it to return before the first game in late April.

Voltaire found out about my 'joining' of said squad (how, I have no idea. The man's creepy like that) and offered his congratulations in a brief note on the table, which seems to be our usual, and only, mode of correspondence. Honestly, if he's going to ignore me, why bother taking me in? Dear grandfather must be senile.

I'm in math class right now, and I do believe that if it weren't for this notebook, I would be dead asleep. Or maybe just dead. It would appear that the vast majority of my idiot cohort has failed the math test given a few weeks before I arrived at Bakuten, and the teacher is wasting her time attempting to drill the formulae for factorizing polynomials into their mostly empty heads. I don't see why she bothers: they'll forget it all come March Break, which, incidentally, is next week.

An entire seven days of boredom-inducing nothing. Hurrah.

...This diary-writing shit is harder than it looks. I've only written one and a quarter pages so far. My notebook's sheets are much too large.

Maybe I can take up space babbling about myself, rather than my imbecilic cohorts.

My name is Kai Hiwatari, I'm sixteen years old (seventeen in December), my favourite colours are ebony, crimson and cobalt. I am utterly and hopelessly pedantic about detail, a perfectionist in every way. I'm an orphan, and currently in the charge of one Voltaire Hiwatari, my grandfather. I've always held myself at (several) arms' length from everybody else, not for fear of getting hurt, but because... because...

I don't know.

Perhaps that was a bit too much about myself. Although, now that I think about it, there really isn't much I can say about my life and my being that doesn't touch on something uncomfortable from my past, something that I don't want to talk to even myself about. Take soccer. To most, it's merely a game, right? You take a ball, you take your friends, you have a fun time. Simple.

But the dodging, the running, the aggression, the speed... it's all too reminiscent of the alleys where I would spend most of my day as a child, hiding in the shadows. I've gotten over it; it was little more than a petty fear. Right?

Right?

Hn. I seem to be a schizoid. No, wrong word.

Oh, well, I'll find a more suitable one later.

Damnit, now I have one and three quarter pages. The guidance teacher shall die.

I could use up the last one and a quarter pages plotting how to kill her... but, no. She'll be 'checking through' what I've written, sooner or later.

I've always thought of love as a sort of ancestral homeland. You've heard tales of it from those who have already been, and you know, no, you hope, it's there, but there is no solid proof. All you have to go in is word of mouth and writ.

You might even doubt its existence.

But deep down, you just know that when you get there, everything will come naturally, and it'll just be smooth sailing.

And one day, when you finally set foot on that distant shore and arrive in the place from whence you came and were conceived, you realize you have no knowledge of the language, or the customs. You are awkward, confused, lost. Unsure of your actions, scared to make a mistake and be deported.

At least, that's what I think. But then, what would I know of love?

My parents were too wrapped up in their own lives, and simply surviving was enough of a challenge. Voltaire may have offered sanctuary, but not home. And though I have oft looked down upon those who gush and lay praise upon the wonders of passion and ardor whilst holding their love's hand, I can't help but feel that, maybe, that's what I want, too.

I've been alone all these years. Perhaps it's time to take down my fortress and start anew.

...

And voila, three pages of nonsensical babbling.

- - - - - - - - - -

To be Continued

Short, blunt, and to the point, but hey! this is Kai we're talking about here.

So, what'd you think?

Nights Child: Good guess. You get a cookie. *sighs, and reluctantly hands over a Chunks Ahoy*

Shadows of Grey: Aw, man, your review made me laugh so hard I spat Kentucky Fried Chicken everywhere. No, the quote isn't from PotC, though it IS from Britain. Rincewind the Wizzard (two 'z's, not one) says, "It could have been us," in one of the Discworld books by Terry Pratchett.

Kiina: I'm weird? I'll take that as a compliment.

To those who have admitted to climbing and falling off walls/ceilings: HAH! I'm not the only one.

I wish I could address all of you personally, buuuut... I have 90 reviews *pauses, stares, coughs, then continues* and I don't know how I possibly could. So I'll just sit here and attempt to glomp anybody that comes 'round. Awright? Awright.

*hunkers down in a corner*