What does it mean to be alone? Looking at the word structure , Mari traces out imaginary boundaries on the diary page where the word written "alone" now is split into "a" "l" and "one".

This is the only thing written on the page, she cannot write anymore as she ponders how she can write the definition.

She is sitting alone herself, against the school building wall, lost in the thought of what it really means to be alone, while her classmates are outside playing at recess. The universe itself is made of many celestial bodies, and our body is built on symbiotic bacteria, cells, and organs, but when you condense everything into any one catergory everything can be "one" or alone. Everything is contained in one infinite holding space. Every. Thing. What is some, what is one, and what is many?

Mari is stuck between complex thought and just accepting the way things are supposed to be, simple minded and fun for a fourth grader, until her parents start worrying about boys and she learns about politics, paying her taxes, and not knowing whether her feelings are justified or not.

Until then, Mari should enjoy her elementary school years. But her self-exclusion from the rest of her peers will soon set her on a mentally exhausting journey of identity, and whether or not "friends" are worthwhile.

Mari hadn't sat with anyone at lunch for three years, the seats next to her remaining empty; void of the friends everyone else in her class seemed to have. Her journal sat open on the lunch table next to her, the word 'alone' scribbled on the page over and over and over again. Connor, the new boy who sat next to her in English yesterday, walked up to her slowly. Before the whispers started. Another boy tapped him on the arm before he was within a few metres, whispering something into his ear while Connor's face slowly morphed into one of contemplation, then pure, abject horror.

Mari could only imagine what they were saying about her,

"She hasn't said a word in two years."

"She's the weird girl."

"Don't talk to Mari, she's insane."

Her classmates were all more silent as she passed them, walking out of the crouded lunchroom, journal still in hand. The page was open, black with inked words that overlapped each other. The door to the empty classroom swung open once when Mari walked into it, then shut before open again as Connor walked inside.

"Hi."

He said carefully, but with a smile.

"I'm Connor."

꧁🙟⎯Mari's Diary ♡✩ ⎯🙜꧂

August 17th, 2018

*oh yeah, and to the crappy narrator or Creator of my "story", here's where the first page of my diary ACTUALLY begins. I

know what people say about me. Here's the first person point of view you're looking for. If this book is open, I know you're reading.

Dear Diary, today I met a boy. Connor. No this isn't one of those stupid journal entries you see in movies where the girl has a crush on the guy. I met a boy, and I'm surprised if anything that he approached me first. All of my peers simply ignore me or talk about me but not TO me. I don't know what's so unlikeable about being realistic, or having interests in my studies so much. I mean, Mama always told me I wouldn't amount to anything if I wasn't advanced, that the kids around me had more to enjoy. Money, stable homes, they can focus on being children. It's sad how much I think about my future, it's sad how I'm scared to talk to kids, LIKE a kid. I want to fit in socially, but really, I'm different. I know Mama got screwed over, I don't blame her. What her "friends" and my father did to her is terrible, but I'm not writing about that today.

Why would Connor want to talk to me? Doesn't he take hints? People call me emo, depressing, and "teacher's pet". Any smart new kid would know to take the warning not to talk to "the quiet kid", after all, my classmates know the whole social hierarchy of the school. So when Connor introduced himself, here's how it went.

"Hi, I'm Connor." he said. He did look a bit scared, almost like he took a bet or something to talk to me and that he would run off and laugh later.

I responded, monotone "Mari, can I help you?" "Oh, you must be new, if you're looking for a tour guide I'm sorry but your best bet is probably someone more talkative and outgoing than me."

"That's not--"

"Dude it's okay, I'm just saying can't you see I'm trying to read here?" I hid my face in one of our assigned books, "Holes", which I had already read before, but used as an excuse to shoo him away."

"Geez, sorry for bothering, I just wanted to get to know some new people, be... cordial? Y'know?"

I pretended to read for a minute until he left.

Most adults think I'm just a 9 year old who's overly socially awkward. Or that I have a speech disability of some sort. I have so much to say, just not to people who reach out a hand and say they want to be friends. I've already seen that fakeness in the adult world. You can't trust anybody. I know what my mother went through. It's especially irrelevant to make friends with 4th graders who have no moral values nor core intelligence. That famous psychologist Freud said something about ages 6-10 being when we pause development psychosexually and enter a latency period, start focusing on making friends or whatever. Such nonsensical bullcrap. Freud? More like Fraud. This age is scary when kids gain consciousness of how to use physical traits and social roles to bully others, to spoil themselves rotten, and get whatever they want. And that continues into adulthood. I'm focused on surviving on my own, I can't stop.

Or at least that's what I feel right now.

I'm no brag, my life is just more complex than I can share. I isolate because there's no reason for me to socialize. There's nobody in my school that would understand.

But I will admit, naturally, I want to talk to Connor again. Guess you can't stop yourself from being a social species after all. Well, Good Night Diary.

꧁🙟⎯Mari's Diary ♡✩ ⎯🙜꧂

August 19th, 2018

Dear Diary, do you ever wonder why I write to you? It's not the reason you'd think. "You", as if you weren't an inanimate object would hypothesize that I'm an attention seeker. Maybe I'm hoping someone finds you and reads all about my pushover life for pity. Or so I can have at least a few ways to relate to little girls my age. I never wanted to be little. I blame my father for that. A small 5'7 man with my 5'3 mother, and he once said I'd grow to be bigger than them. That is before he left. Big ego for a little bitch. I write to you because I actually am afraid to tell a living person the things that I feel, I don't want judgment, pity, acceptance or therapy talks. I'm scared of it. Half of my life now I've lived with only half of what were supposed to be my parents. I don't know what it's like to be listened to without someone rushing to do something else. My father would sneak off to cheat on my mom and then turned the look on her, just because she works as a bartender, he always accused her of being unfaithful. Meanwhile, my mother had no idea that while she was at work, he didn't stay home taking care of me, he'd put me to bed and if I woke up and was alone, he told me not to tell her anything. Being 6, I never thought anything of it. Why would I care so much for people who didn't have time for me? I couldn't care less where he was. My father worked during the day and my mother during the night. My father finally started a huge fight with my mother one day, painting her out to be a "floozy" and ran away with my mother's best friend, actually. So my mom became bitter, all because a man quite literally fucked her up. There's me, the child of a traitor. Why would I deserve to be loved? I love my mom despite her wanting to give me the bare minimum, so I can grow up and finally leave her alone. So why would I want to make any friends when my mother was scammed by someone who was supposed to be the love of their life? I know I'll grow out of this period of life, but I wish I didn't have a conscience this young. I'm sick of calling my mother "Mama" as if I'm still some cute little baby that's adored no matter what. As if my mom isn't disgusted when she looks at me and sees pieces of him. It's been at least 2 years since I had a hug, as well as the last time I went to sleep alone. I will admit I miss bedtime stories and late-night talks. That's why I keep you under my pillow. You've done so much to help me at least learn not to act like an alien after being alienated from my own family. Maybe it's time I try to make the most of my last 2 years of elementary school. Anyhow, I should be getting to sleep.