Diary 1

I sat on a couch listening to a middle-aged woman speak while I struggled to understand how time whooshed out of my fingers and onto my expression. It was terrible. The vibrations of the television and her voice collided into an immeasurable blur of noise ; I could no longer effectively give the impression of focus. Fucking terrible. The television spoke: ...sometimes he would date his victims several times before.... and then the soft stream of older the woman came with the sincerest melody: I loved people so much that I had to learn to separate my friends because I couldn’t expect people to be with me all the time. I was the focal point of some television special on serial killers and this loving woman-child. Thankfully, her back was turned to the monstrosity before me. Soon her sincerity was being projected onto the flashing re-enactments of the serial killer on the television screen- if only to ease the contrast between the two, since watching it was even more painful in her presence. The night was moving along, I said some things and then satisfaction came out of nowhere; the most elegant stroke against young Persian women came out of her son’s mouth. It’s elegance stemmed from the credulous way he said it, a thought so obvious to me that it had lost all value of mentioning long ago. The words glided out of his mouth with such integrity "I knew these Persian girls from my class. I thought they were nice until I listened the horrible way they spoke about other people, the way the spoke about the teacher. Had I not known Farsi I would have thought they were decent girls. They always talked and smiled, they seemed nice"
It’s all very anti-climatic now, but it wouldn’t be if you heard the way this kid said it...