Loneliness has bloomed into a flower.

Another night alone. A pitch-black night. There will never be anyone with me; there wasn't before, and there probably won't be in the future. Only loneliness, the kind of loneliness as vast as mountains and seas. I am always forgotten, always abandoned.\ So-called freedom, true freedom, is exactly like this for me. No friends or family by my side, no living beings to accompany me—I mean, the only companions I have are things made of silicon and plastic. Despairing of everything—that is freedom.\ My loneliness has blossomed into a flower. But this flower is poison. Just like the flowers that bring me wealth. I am very certain that I will not pity those addicts. Yet at midnight, in sleepless nights, just like now, I often think of them.\ I used to long for love. But it was just longing, which turned into disappointment, into despair.\ And what is love, anyway? The only things that allowed me to grow by myself were masturbation, self-destruction, inexplicable anxiety, and absurdity. A person crazily yearning, longing, loving unrequitedly. Under the sunlight, during the beautiful period of youth, having a first love with a pure and lovely girl—it was just a dream. I have experienced too much, and too cruelly. Before I had a chance to love, reality molded me into a frenzied and extreme shell. An endless vicious cycle.\ I no longer recognize myself. The last bit of conscience has also been destroyed. Perhaps, maybe, probably, I am the dregs of society, the scum of humanity.\ What else can I do? All I can do is type these words aimlessly. And this will make some people think that I am a pretentious, superficial, melancholic non-mainstream person. Perhaps I always have been.