Day 1

Cold. It’s cold today. Sehun knows it’s cold because his teeth are chattering. And his fingers… his fingers are stiff and numb. They said it’s good to write, especially about your feelings and your thoughts. They said it would keep your emotions at bay. But what does he feel? He doesn’t know if he feels anything at all. Especially when he can’t describe what’s going on in his mind. No; nothing at all. Or maybe it’s everything at once. He can’t really comprehend at the moment.

His words are scrawled untidily across the pages with sentences formed that don’t really make sense; a stream of consciousness that starts abruptly and ends the same. It’s almost too quiet for him to concentrate, but his mind is too chaotic to even hear the silence.

Perhaps he should be concentrating on class, because thinking about feelings and thoughts seem to trouble him even more. Illustrations of his mind can be done later, maybe when his mentality is less tumultuous. When he eases down and finds his equilibrium. But it’s cold today. The weather’s cold.

Day 2

Sehun likes listening to music, so he writes it down. It’s the first thought that decides to appear in his head during maths period. He doesn’t like people’s voices, so he always finds himself listening to classical music; one of his favourite: Frederic Chopin’s Nocturnes. Quite strange isn’t it? With music, everything feels almost free… like he’s gliding among the meadows and walking through the plains of dreamland, somewhere between the sky and earth, mere metres away from flying into heaven. Fingertips nearly touching the clouds.

There’s a soul that appears in his room every sundown. Sehun writes it down too. Every night the young man sits there in the corner, waiting. For Sehun. He’s not hallucinating. He swears. He knows he’s not. Is he? It’s frightening, but he likes it. Sehun misses his friend. He likes it when he goes to sleep because his friend is there, in the corner. He’s really there. Trust him, he’s not lying.

Day 5

A minute observation and a small confession: Sehun doesn’t talk much. He’s a silent person who seems to only speak to his notebook. Nobody seems to pay any heed to him but everyone knows he’s left out. But the world keeps working and everyone minds their own business. There are too many things to mend; always a crumb short to a whole.

They say that his friend is gone, that he’s not there. But why can Sehun still see him? He knows that his friend isn’t gone. He can’t be. Because he still visits Sehun every night. Why won’t anyone listen to him? He’s not lying. He promises. He swears. He never lies. Or does he? Maybe he’s lying right now. He doesn’t know. But he just wants the truth. Someone please tell him the truth. He wants the truth.

Day 7

People are strange. The mind is strange. Everything is strange. What if unpleasant memories didn’t exist? Where would they be… lost in time? What if time didn’t exist? How did time come to exist? What will happen after time? What even happened before time?

Preconception. Perception. Revolution. Evolution. Coexistence.

Not even the non-traditional scales and chromaticism of Achille-Claude Debussy’s Complete Prelude can save Sehun from his blustery state of mind. He’s writing to the point where he doesn’t know what he’s writing about. He just wants to look busy, and maybe waste a little time. People are looking at him and he doesn’t like it. He thinks that perhaps he’s just being paranoid. No, but they’re staring. Boring holes into his silhouette with eyes of judgement; captious yet pitiful.

It’s cold. Today’s weather is cold. With moderate precipitation and grey clouds, blocking out the lucid blue. The sky shatters and crumbles; cries shards of glass and brings along broken recollections – painfully beautiful. It glides among the window almost too solemnly with trickles gracefully racing to the bottom sill. Pathetic fallacy, Sehun thinks. 

He races home, feet slamming into puddles, hair clinging onto face and shirt drenched entirely. He laughs though, to find his friend doing the same thing two steps behind him. Disappears when Sehun reaches his doorstep and greets his mother.

“You should’ve called me to come pick you up.”

“I ran with Jongin.”

“What do you mean you ran with Jongin?”

Day 8

Dreams are generally outside the control of the dreamer. Sehun dreams of dancing again; a duo with Jongin, like back then. Set on a wide stage with roaring audiences and screaming fans, lights flickering and melody pounding into the core of his eardrums. Heartbeat and music as one. He recounts this into his journal between the morning rays of sun and his unmade bed.

There’s an appointment today. Sehun tells them that Jongin is still alive; tries hard to persuade them of his sanity. Sehun knows his friend is still alive, but they won’t believe him. Those people in the white coats… why don’t they believe him? The room is boring. An off-white box, so spotless that it scares him. Sehun likes blue. Why can’t they paint it blue? Jongin likes blue too. That is the reason why Sehun likes blue.

Day 15

Five pills are lined up on his study table, with approximately ten centimetres apart. Pens scattered and sheets of incomplete homework tossed carelessly, barely sitting on the table. The curtains are closed but daylight peeps through a hole in the corner that Sehun ripped out to patch up the tear in his pyjama shirt. He was being creative. He places two fingers on the first pill from the left, counts to three and makes a leap to the next one. Does it again and again until he reaches the last pill and then takes a heavy breath before the fingers bound off the table. He watches as his fingers try to reach the floor but his arms are stretched too far, so his hand limply lays mid air.

Unhealthy, they said. It’s been a week since he’s written and he still doesn’t know why he does it; why he’s writing. His mind, they said it’s unhealthy. They said what he’s letting his head do is detrimental. Possibly, it might be. He’s not too sure though. But it’s cold. The trees tell him that it’s cold, because he can’t really tell anymore. They waver in the wind in sounds of whispering branches but empty leaves.

Loneliness weeps of lifelessness.

Day 18

Today’s state of mind: Niccolo Paganini’s 24 Caprices Op.1. An evolution of violin techniques, painting the storm inside Sehun’s brain and levers out thoughts with a bow gliding against the strings. He brings the volume up during biology class and drowns away into the misery of the music; the force and velocity almost makes him want to burst into tears. Like hands that reach inside of him and pull his heart muscles and makes his fingers curl and clench into his palm. The higher the note the more deeper he breathes.

Jongin hasn’t appeared in three days. Sehun worries. They said that Sehun is healing, but that’s not what he cares about right now. What if he forgets Jongin? Sehun can’t seem to remember his face. He feels lonely, and it’s cold. He’s starting to hate this cold. It’s too cold.

Day 23

Puzzles are pieces people try to put together in a rational way in order to arrive at a logical solution. Sehun is trying to figure out his own mental mystery. He is laying in his bed, reading his favourite novel The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes while listening to the all time classic Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; with one knee up and the other leg crossed over. His foot sway to the tune of violins. He figures that breakfast in bed would be good today, but resolves that he’s not hungry the next minute, so food is soon forgotten.

The isolation, however, is doing something to his brain, but he doesn’t really have a choice. He doesn’t like to talk nor go outside, but rather he wants to revel in his confinement. He stops reading, starts writing. He feels like he’s just wasting ink but they said he needs to write more often so he can monitor himself. Father got him a new journal today and threw away his old one, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to try to be neat. That takes effort and Sehun doesn’t have any.

Something is missing though. Someone actually. Sehun doesn’t know who. Maybe he does, but he can’t seem to remember. So he writes it down, vaguely and ambiguously. He’s been taking his medication, but he doesn’t like it. It’s too bitter, he renders.  He jots down that he should go ask them for something sweeter. He likes sweet. Sweet is nice.

Day 24

The smell of books is funny but somehow calming to the nose. It’s a comfortable aroma, laced with the embracement of an indoor heater. Sehun sits in the far corner, fingers fiddling with a pill on top of the second page of his journal. Twirls it around with the lid of his pen, pops it into his mouth and swallows it with a gulp of water. He really needs something sweet.

He’s at the library, not actually reading or studying. But he’s just there. They said that his mind is becoming healthy. He wonders what that even means, because instead he feels like he’s losing something. He doesn’t know what though. Can somebody help him?

His feelings are in its downfall and defeat.

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