I decided to keep a little journal, so I would understand how to put my emotions into words. I can't really speak, you see. I can't come up with things on the spot. It's severe introversion. So I found a notebook and clumsily wrote over the scattered pages. Just thoughts and hopes and dreams and things I wanted to say, you know, so that if I needed to say them, or if I ever got the chance to say them, I could turn them into speech. So I wrote, but writing wasn't always easy. I had to rewrite, and tear out pages, because some of these things were a little too personal. It was a private diary, but maybe someone would take it. Maybe my parents would see it and get a little too curious. Actually, that's unlikely, because my parents don't seem to know or care about anything I do. Sometimes, my entries were eloquent. Not beautiful, never beautiful. Could I ever do something beautiful? Eh. Others were just single words, like answers to hypothetical questions.

"Lonely. Isolated. Separated. Despair. Fear. Hopelessness."

But who would ask? No one. Some others were clarifications. Explanations.

"I can't pet your Cyndaquil because it might flare up. I can't hold your Totodile because it might bite. I can't see your Kadabra because it could hurt my mind."