The Icelandic teen sat by the desk. His journal was placed on it. Emil held a pen in his hand, thinking about what he should write at the 114th page of the journal.
„Maybe I should... No... That's too dumb.” He mumbled to himself, rejecting yet another thought from god knows how many.
But then he got an idea. He sighed quietly before opening the journal at it's 114th page. Then he finally started writing.
Hello Journal.
Today I was thinking... But it wasn't normal thinking... I was thinking about myself. About my mistakes. About my personality. In a short therm, I was thinking about who I really am.
I know I'll always be the last Nordic. I know I'll never be like the rest of the group is. I am different from them. I am younger than them. I am still a teenager. They are all already grown up men.
And that's not the only thing that makes me different from them.
I was always a little bit of an outsider.
...But not as a kid. I wasn't an outsider as a kid.
I wasn't the lonely or the last one. I used to smile and laugh a lot.
I was curious about the world around me.
I wasn't an outsider.
Then why I am one now?
That's something I am trying to answer myself for a quite long time.
YOU ARE READING
Emil's Journal
RandomW͙A͙R͙N͙I͙N͙G͙. P͙l͙e͙a͙s͙e͙ t͙o͙l͙e͙r͙a͙t͙e͙ t͙h͙e͙ f͙a͙c͙t͙ t͙h͙a͙t͙ I͙'v͙e͙ s͙t͙a͙r͙t͙e͙d͙ t͙o͙ w͙r͙i͙t͙e͙ t͙h͙i͙s͙ t͙h͙i͙n͙g͙ w͙h͙e͙n͙ I͙ k͙n͙e͙w͙ a͙ l͙i͙t͙t͙l͙e͙ t͙o͙ n͙o͙t͙h͙i͙n͙g͙ a͙b͙o͙u͙t͙ I͙c͙e͙l͙a͙n͙d͙. I͙t͙'s͙ c͙r͙i͙n͙g͙y͙ a͙s͙ h͙e͙c͙k͙...
