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Life. The very word holds a meaning to it so grand and bountiful, yet can be uttered in one syllable, with only 4 letters. The main lifeform on Earth are humans. Humans have become the dominant species in this sector of the universe. We have mapped the world, learned of causes of supernatural events, sent objects to outer space, killed over a hundred species, enslaved several species of animals purely for food. We can cure ourselves of many diseases, study other animals of this world to the point we know them better than they do, and read our very own genome. And of course, society. And government. But that's not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about the meaning of life.

If I had a survey, and I asked as many people as possible "What is the meaning of Life?" you would perhaps get the most varying degrees of answers. An ordinary civilian would most likely say, "I don't know." Which is true. But then it just escalates from there. Ironically enough, answers depend on how you lived depends on your answer. Here is a sample I collected amongst my friends.

"42." "Ask your mom." "Life is life." "Wha?" "Ask the nearest metaphysicst." "Ask the science teacher." "Don't talk to me." "Do I look like Einstein to you?" "Find out for yourself, Genius."

The best one I received was "The meaning of life is to find out what the meaning of life is." Because it make sense, but a circular paradox at the same time. Oh well. Too bad.

A small portion, anyway. But it mimics our simple lifestyles, our simple mindsets, our simple goals. If you asked me the very same question, I would respond:

"Empathy." It makes sense in a way. I bet one could easily find a reason why it isn't, but it's a great improvement over most others.
I wish to survey people like the Dalai Lama, and the Pope. Most likely, they would trash my "letter of great importance." But anyways, let's stop beating around the bush. If you care to, you could go explore the blackberry brambles of one of your simpleton friends. But here, I'll attempt to plunge into the deepest, thickest, darkest thicket of them all.

Mine.
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I hate school. And with good reason.

School, to me, is a time wasting program that is simply for imbeciles. They say it is "necessary, gives one knowledge, and teaches good study skills." I, to say the least, strongly disagree.

I have been going to the same school for nine years now. K-8. If anything, I would've learned 5x more if I skipped a few grades. I lost all of my good qualities I have, all wasted on things I know. Like a computer, efficiency and memory is lost if information is transmitted too slowly. Review exists in a different dimension than I. Because I can only rest once I feel at rest. Instead, I get aggravated by constant homework, quizzes, tests, projects.

I mean, I get why teachers give tests and quizzes. But homework and projects are completely useless to me. They have no purpose, because once I got it, I got it.

I understand all of this stuff. I absorb Quadratics, English prepositions, Spanish vocabulary, Chemistry, and the Constitution like water. I have the perfect analogy of students.

If knowledge is water, then most people absorb it like a rag. A little bit at a time, and can't hold it very long. But once displaced into the bucket of the synapses, it can hold indefinitely. It will vanish over time, through evaporation. The smarter kids are like sponges. They can hold more at a time in short term memory, and is more efficient at moving knowledge per squeeze. The absolute geniuses are black holes. They instantly know everything that is placed before them, and there is no short term memory. Everything is already in long term. They can hold that information indefinitely.

But alas, we have those other people. The people who don't have a single care about education. Their absorption skills, are like a stone. No matter what they do or say, they can't absorb water. They study for an hour, 2, 3, 5 hours, but when they put the textbook down, they don't recall anything that they just studied. Anything they try is futile.

I don't mean to offend anyone. Because it's the truth.

Please don't think I am some apathetic, calculating entity with no cares except for myself. I want to think of myself on just the opposite. Because these people are truly the ones left behind, the ones that cough in the settling dust of society. They can't speak for themselves. Because one who is ignorant of their surroundings is more crippled than one who has lost a leg. All due to the fact that people pity a cripple. And they despise a fool.

This is what society has led us to. Into oblivion. If all of us were fools, we would all live happy lives. Ignorance is bliss only if another doesn't have a monopoly of knowledge. Knowledge is a curse. Society runs on the fact that we give more to the ones who suffered more. Because the top jobs require a perfect education, society rewards them more for bearing more of the curse than others.

The Giver, anyone?

…

Society is plain stupid.
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I honestly don't know why I'm recording my thoughts here in this journal. I mean, it's good to write. I feel all of my anger drip out of me, through my hand, through the pen, and on to paper. And the marks remain as a triumph over anger, the battlefield of me versus my inner negative emotions. But more specifically, I don't understand why I pour out my heart. Maybe it's because I long for understanding and compassion...
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My entries are growing shorter by day. But I have an interesting enigma I had today. So today will cover quite a bit of paper.

(A blank spot is noted, with several lines skipped)

It isn't really an enigma, just a feeling. I don't feel like myself today. I feel as if my ownership of my own body had been stripped away from me. Which is stupid, because I am one with my body. But still... logical reasoning doesn't seem to fix the problem. I have a case in which Aristotle would have been stumped by. I feel reserved. I don't want to tell my tale.

(There is another blank spot on the page)

Well, this is a private journal, after all. There isn't much to say, anyway. It's just... after that pizza guy came to the wrong house, I feel more lethargic, a feeling almost, but not quite, entirely unlike sleepiness and fatigue. And I slept rather well yesterday. It's merely strange... that's all...
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I don't feel as if I should be alive. But nothing traumatizing happened, so I don't know what's going on. It makes me feel helpless, to not know of things around me...

I expected the feeling of not being myself to pass in a few hours. But it's been a week. I already told my parents, but they just had me with a psychologist for a few sessions. They thought I was depressed, and I was feeling suicidal...

My parents think that they're perfect parents. But they don't know me. They love me, and I love them too... but whenever I do wrong, they punish me. Badly. But as they do it, they say they do it because they love me. And the worst thing is, I don't trust them when they say that.

(There are large wrinkled spots in the paper, suggesting the writer shed tears)

I can easily believe I am the only student to come to school with bruises already received from home.
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My emptiness remains. Yet now I see a solution on the horizon.

On the internet, I found a story. A story that could've easily passed for a teen-fic story. It was about a story of a young lad, who transformed into an entity from a well known game. And he discovers a secret society and fights back against a greater evil that, per usual, want to take over the world. It was a rather well-constructed tale. And I read every single darn chapter of it.

But usually, I would mentally chide myself for wasting valuable time on reading something with just the regular drab theme of Good v. Bad. But something clicked inside of me while I read. I heard the tick of the universe. And my biological clock and heartbeat beat in synchronization with the tick of the universe. The cosmic pieces of the universe aligned. They matched, and they fit together.

I joined the group. And I was accepted. And so I waited, anxiously, for the next change in me, like a young lad who eagerly waited for the first hair on the armpit.

I waited.

The story was called, "Pokeumans".
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I feel bad.

You have to bear and bite your metaphorical tongue as I roll out my yarns out of my unsensable mouth and an intoxicated brain.

And there is no end to your fate.

But I hear your words that had been, has, and will never be spoken.

You say it's okay. You say that you were meant for this job. You say that you would go on to help me as much as possible.

Wait. Am I speaking to you, journal?

I must be going mad.
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I continue to wait. I still sense no change in me. I am trying everything to be one of them.

Why?

It is a simple solution to all of my problems. I can leave my family, and declare independence, yet remain strong with them. I no need to worry about peer pressure. A bully is a situation greatly ameliorates then all of the idiots at our school. And of course, I would have a sense of what is my purpose in life. I may lie in my grave, forever oblivious from the greatest secret from man, but I would triumph and live in serenity that as I left, the world was better than when I first came onto it. And continue to spread my positive influence unto this world.

It is the greatest feeling to have. Because I already felt the warmth of friendship. I felt the sincere thank-you drop me to the knees in pure embarrassment, not because they humiliated me, but because it's difficult to receive any kind of praise, no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential. And I have yet to feel the heat of love.

But the feeling that you helped many people who you don't know and yet they thank you with all their heart, that is the ultimate trump card, the ultimate royal flush, the ultimate lord. All else are simple vassals.

Everyone has a feeling to do good. But people twist, puncture, dislocate, and abuse that feeling. And that is what turns people into malicious, cruel, sadistic, apathetic, heartless, lose-lose beings. And that's the greatest pain in me. That every waking moment I spend, yet another is forced against their will to do something.

It shouldn't be this way. No one has the right to do this. Everyone, by the Pigman's decree, has the right to automize themselves. No one can take that away. Our Ultimate Creator made it this way. There cannot be a single dictator of the world. It isn't possible. Yet people try.

I pronounce my faith, belief, and trust in all of this. I purposely put all of my eggs in one basket, for the lack of baskets. I put $1000 on Snake Eyes, for the lack of rolls. I put all of my time into this, for pure radicality.

I hereby announce I will do my best to change for the better all of humanity and the world, and to continue to do so long after my death.

This is why I must be a pokeuman.

Amen.
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It has been several weeks now.

I don't feel like I achieved anything from here. I didn't succeed.

I was driven by mere wish.

I feel lost, like a sheep out of the sight of the shepard.

I am the sheep. The other sheep are those who were successful, and live in content, mostly. They graze on grass, happy as the day was long.

Then who is the shepard?

…

The shepard is my desire.

Not sexual desire. That's disgusting! I don't drool over petty things like that!

…

I wish. Because desire is altogether petty. There is so many things I want to be but I'm not. But the shepard is my desire to succeed. And I am driven by that force.

I think most people are in the same conundrum as I. And they failed because of the wolf called peer pressure and the fox named society.

And that's where I most likely be, among the other sheep bones, in a ditch.

And me as bones, throughly mixed with the other skeletons, serving as a reminder of not to get too hardheaded.
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I was exploring in the digital space of this group. And I found a story that most… appealed to me.

The story of a clone.

I read of his adventure, and managed to find himself as a pokeuman. And of course, lived happily ever after.

But every single darn story other than that I read of these people enjoying base life.

HAVE THEY GONE MAD?!?!?!

Nearly every single character were told that they had a clone substituting for them at home. And they were exactly alike. Just without the gene that had all the horror and all the glory, all the exalted and all the denounced, all the difference in the world.

And they never bothered to give a second thought about that clone.

What if THEY were the ones suffering and wearing away to the constant battle of society! What if THEY were the ones wondering where their life went, leaving them behind, eating the dust! WHAT IF THEY WERE THE ONES TO DIE PENNILESS, WITHOUT A GRAVESTONE, DEAD EARLY, WHILE THE OTHER WAS LIVING CONTENTLY, RETIRED, PLAYING WITH THEIR GRANDCHILDREN?!?!!

AND THEY ARE THEM! EXACTLY THE SAME! PERFECTLY ALIKE!

THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT THEIR BASTARD CHILDREN OF THEIR OWN F*CKING MIND!!!

...
…
…
…
…

This disgusts me.
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I lost all my bearings of life.

I finally understand.

I am not the chosen one.

It was not to be.

I never was, never am, and never will be a pokeuman.

That train departed over 2 weeks ago.

I am the generation that is cursed with knowledge.

Because I am not a pokeuman.

…

Because…
I…
Am…
A…
…
…
…
c…l…o…n…e…

I can't believe it...

I don't want to believe it... but I must. All of the cards are laid out on the table. My day of judgement has come, and the gavel struck me right on the forehead, between my eyes.

Such cards are:

I am in the group of Pokeumans on dA, yet I haven't met a single one yet.

A pizza guy "came to the wrong house".

I am not myself.

...

To be honest, most of my reasons are pure speculation. But to face the truth: I will never be one of them.

I tried so hard, and to be infinitesimally close to be.

But also not to be. It is my asymptote.

I feel as if all of my basic rights just been eaten right off of my head... I'm emotionally drained...

(There are even more wrinkled marks on the page, clearly identifying their emotions)

I had my hopes so high…

To quite literally follow my dream...

And to have it crushed...

BY THIS MUCH!!!

WHY COULDN'T I HAVE BEEN THE ONE? WHY COULDN'T I HAVE BEEN THE NAME OF THE CENTURY? WHY COULDN'T I BE THE PHILANTHROPIST TO PUT CARNEGIE TO SHAME???

Why…

…
…
…

why…

…
…
…

w…h…y…

…
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I feel strange. Different than the one of not feeling myself. More like as if… all the life was sucked out of you, and as an empty shell. I feel zombielike.

Because my other self, left on a journey, leaving this spent piece of saltless salt.

And I feel like I'm going mad.

I'm to emotionally attached to you, journal. I, again and again, talk to you as if you were a psychiologist.

And I get solace from your unspoken wisdom.

... It frightens me.

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I feel pure anger. Nothing. Else. I barely retain the sanity to hold onto this pen, the ultimate device that would change my destiny, as right now my fate is on the borderline, with both sides pulling me into salvation and damnation, sanity and insanity, rationality and radicality, and ultimately, life and death.

Why? Because I hate myself with full fervor.

If only I was more compassionate, I would be saved.
If only I was more philanthropic, I would figuratively be raised.
If only I was more pious, I would see my "father figure" in action.

If only, if only, if only. There are too many things we all wished we could change. But it's far too late. So I must pay the price of not doing these things before hand.

IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!!!

Because if HE gets to live the life of adventure, why don't I get to do the same?

We both have done wrong. But only I must pay the dues for BOTH of us!!!

Why!? Why!?!? Why!?!?!? WHY!!!!!!

...

I f*cking want to kill myself because I'm just atrocious. There's no one but me to blame. I am borderline crazy. But now I am calm.

Calm...

…

Thank you again, journal, for saving me yet again.
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I hate myself.

I dread myself to the core.

Today I listened to a song. One with lyrics and the optimistic feel. It was over the radio.

It sang about how unique each one of us were.

And that lit the match of my stored up dynamite in my head.

No, that's wrong. It moved the already-lighted match to the fuse.

I screamed to the radio, to the singer, for the whole world to hear.

I don't remember exactly, but I'll inscribe each painful letter into here.

"Right! You're going off telling us that WE are special! Great! We struggle to pay our friggin' taxes, while you are probably on a break, eating foie gras and caviare! And you make as much as my entire community makes in an hour! AND while you were probably chatting on your iPhone99XLS, specially custom designed for you! And the fact is, you give off propaganda that we should work for this bastard country! AND YOU HAVE THE MIND TO TELL US YOUR CONTRIBUTING TO US AND THE PEOPLE OF AFRICA BY SINGING THIS F*CKING SONG FOR CHARITY! FOR CHARITY! YOU IGNORE THE HARD, BITTER, TRUTH, AND YET YOU DON'T CARE! WHY? DO YOU LIKE TO SEE PIGS ROLL IN THE MUD FOR YOUR MONEY?!?!?! YOU'RE JUST A SADISTIC BASTARD, WITH ABSOLUTELY NO CARE FOR OTHERS! YOU FRICKIN' ENJOY SEE PEOPLE SUFFER!!! And get our hopes riled up for some 'dream job' like yours, and make us 'follow our dreams' and other b*llshit like that! Well, guess what? GUESS WHAT?! YOU'RE BEING A DUMBASS FOR TELLING US TO 'REACH FOR THE STARS'!!! AND GUESS WHAT?!?!?! BECAUSE IT AIN'T POSSIBLE, BECAUSE OF HOW SOCIETY WORKS!!! ONLY WAY TO GET TO THE F*CKING STARS IS IF A MAGICAL PONY OR FAIRY TELEPORTED YOU THERE, OR IF YOU FOUND AN INTACT ROCKET UNDERGROUND TO GET YOU THERE! SO F*CK OFF, GET YOUR ASS OF THIS WORLD, AND DIE IN A F*CKING HOLE!!!" So on and so forth.

I had continued long after that song was done. The sixth song was nearing the end when I finished my rant of utter hatred, animosity, discord, and pure negativity.

There was a long silence. I was home alone. My words, my passion, my spirit in my broken body was gone. No one to receive it. My answer transmitted to subspace never reached the destination. Because of a plain, ordinary, ubiquitous wall.

Just as I thought. Murphy's law has, is, will always be in effect.
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I can now call you a friend, journal.

...

No matter how strange it sounds, it's true. Not like an imaginary friend. But you're so much like a friend, yet so different.

Because like any new friends, I came slowly to you, cautious, defensive.

Then I came to know you better. I was destabilized by the world and its events. And like a friend, you helped me up from the shadows of life. I trusted you from then on. I leaned harder on you, like a man with a cane, where age washed over both, yet only the man began to succumb to the erosion of age, but the cane was as resilient as ever, lending the man everlasting support until the end.

That's how I feel. You, journal, are the perfect friend. I give you secrets, you never tell. I tell of my stories of the horror and the glory. You listened compassionately. I recount tales of unjustice. You emphasized with me and gave me solace and advice. I broke down completely. You mended me again, soldered where I was broken, reshaped where I was deformed, and polished where I was rusted. And yet you asked for no favors. And you would follow me with all your paper heart, mind, and soul to the end, and be the last to hold my hand as I die.

Never asking me of anything.

Faith unwavering.

Loyalty forever.

You will never betray me. Never turning back on me. Never will be asking anything out of me.

And so I am indebted to you.
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END OF FIRST PART OF RECORDS/CLONE 428937

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I was, at first, nervous, scared, and frightened. I remember that the pizza guy had knocked me out with a purple gas. Which doesn't make sense at all, because the guy was using a friggin' SPRAY can. They could only spray aerosols. I don't know. But science apparently was defeated at that moment.

I found myself in the back of a dark van. I actually didn't find about the chains strapping me down to the floor until my rescuer cut them off. At first, I just was simply shocked at why I was being kidnapped, after I regained my bearings on what happened in the last waking moment. We were a rather poor family. And if they asked for ransom, they wouldn't pay it. They would buy a gun, and attack at the meeting place. That's how our family did things. They took matters into their own hands, and never gave up. I admired my parents that way. Even though not the ideal parents, they were good enough for me.

The next moments were quite action-paced. I don't exactly know what happened. There was too much to absorb. Heck, it's STILL to much for me to absorb. That's why I'm writing these down, to see if I could make any logical sense out of this place of paradox are reality. I got whipped in the face with too many truths. Here's what I make of this:

1. Pokemon are real.
2. I am a half Pokemon half human mix.
3. I have no idea which pokemon I will be.
4. There is an evil crackpot idiot that wants power, and so brainwashes people like us.
5. I am to train.

It's not much for me to handle. No, I am not a supercomputer wedged in a human body. Actually, anyone could take this in. Seriously. Do you want to know the secret?

It isn't the initial news that makes it hard to absorb. It's the thoughts that follow that blow away all logic and reasoning out of the water.
This is what passed my mind:

1. Holy shit.
2. I don't believe.
3. But it's real, because the guy in front of me is living proof.
4. My head hurts.
5. I think I should lie down.
6. But I can't!
7. ARGH!

Wow. In seven thought processes I managed to get myself absolutely off the dart board. The Power of Thinking, positive or negative. Anyhow, I could get used to this. I'll come back later. Goodbye!
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It's me again. So much has changed since my first entry. Anyway, first things first. I have a room with a Chatot, a Porygon2, and a Eevee. They're all very nice and kind, and with a few quirks each. Like the Chatot is filled with random trivia and knows-all, sees-all; Porygon2 is the smartass in the group; and the Eevee is shy and timid. No one really likes our group, but it's okay. I'm fine with it. But I don't know why. Maybe they're afraid of the unknown? It's plausible.

But I don't know why. Everyone has a golden kernel in their being, no matter how many layers of strangeness, bitterness, and introversion is in them. People aren't hard to read. Everyone needs tender care and compassion. I guess that's my job. I sow seeds of compassion, empathy, and kindness in people, no matter how ravaged those fields are. Because every single seed will grow, with care. And when they sprout, they will bear fruit, and all of us will share the bounty of the harvest. And everyone is happy. We, quite literally, reap what we sow.

The feeling is good. The satisfaction of looking back and seeing the trail I made for others to follow. It isn't hopeless. Because a constant rate of increase will always reach any positive finite number. And so, my first job here is the make anew the bad connotations of all people, and achieve perfect synergy. And then defeat the force that's lurking in the shadows.

My goodness, I got off track. My job for this journal isn't to fill up paper with yarns of life. My goal is to change the hearts of people, to show that no matter how bad the solution, there will always be hope. And hope will always be there to fix any problem at hand.

Anyhow, base life is amazing. Good food, good classes, good dorms, and good facility. But I have a few problems in this seemingly perfect world.

I can't stop thinking of all the other people, whose dreams are parallel to my reality. And their wish would never come true.

I know humans have caused this fate for all. And as irony would have it, they are the ones that have landed me in this perfect utopia.

Speaking of this perfect Utopia, it probably is. Utopia with a few VERY minor problems, like the occasional bully. But there is something that could crush our world to shreds.

Not just pokextinction. The entire world.

We are all just hiding out in this club for only exceptionals, while the rest of them all are just living in extreme poverty. Let's look at it from a larger angle.

I live somewhere. A place where dreams come true. Literally. Perfect school. Perfect food. No expenses. No tax. No disease. Practically no war. No work. None of all the abominations that practically everyone suffers from. Because I'm exceptional in a way that's uncontrollable.

This is Social Darwinism.

I hate it. Because I don't deserve it. I don't deserve a single iota of this facility. There are plenty more that suffered more than me. And even more who helped more people than I. I don't belong here.

But if I leave, then I would instantly be captured by the opposition. And that would not be good at all. Then I would mindlessly harm people, with no control of any of my actions. So I am in a conundrum.

To be or not to be, that is the question.

Should I remain in this near-heaven, where I don't belong? Or should I jump off, and land into the depths of hell?

I don't know.

...

I have a plan.

I will stay. And train. And become strong.

And then I will rejoin the human population. And help them. And fight against all injustice, pokeuman related or not.

This is a promise written in blood. I swear to help all. And forever fight against evil.

Amen.

PS:I know it's illogical to have a postscript after a highly passionate entry like this, but once again, I got off track and just went to an entirely different location than I should've gone. But it's better late than never. Here is my abysmal message:

I'm a Kirlia! Don't mind it too much, but I do get teased. That makes me fit in right with my roommates! Can't wait to be a Gallade!
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I'm homesick. It's stupid, I know. Probably no one ever here had suffered homesickness. They're too interested in everything else. But to be honest, I get bored easily.

I'm tired of the amazing food given to us.
I'm tired of aceing all of my classes.
I'm tired of being good at battling.
I'm tired of being number one at Smash.
I'm tired of this base.

My friends, though, help me with the homesickness. I'm glad for friends who care for my welfare. I asked them if they were homesick.

No, they said. We don't get homesick. We never thought of the life we left behind, because this is the perfect upgrade from our previous lives.

They never go back in their respective previous lives. They're happy. Even though they're generally disliked, they're still happy.

But I can't stop thinking about my family, anywhere. When I eat. When in class. When playing Smash. When I talk. When I dream.

My parents aren't worried sick. I know that. Apparently, Pokextinction cloned me and left him behind to take my place. I can't stop thinking about him. Because he would be the exact same as me. Except that he wasn't, isn't, and never will be a Pokeuman. He's been negated from the life of Utopia. By the thickness of a leaf. And fated to bear the weight and toll of real life.

It sickens me. No one bothered to care about their clones. None. Absolutely no one.

...

WHY?!

If I was the clone, I would be red with rage. I would get a shotgun, and kill every damn poke-related thing. Because they are all damn idiots.

Pokeumans are fighting a losing war. Hate me for this, but I know it's true. Because through logic, Pokextinction has the upper hand.

Through cloning, they have an infinite army. I don't know why they don't do it. The CEO of Pokextinction is a dumbass. He clones for only as a bookmark.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Oh, and Pokeumans have plenty of faults as well. Most members just live their absolutely banal lives and don't contribute to the war effort. And the entire base is flooded with just idiots, maggots, and more imbeciles. They say they speak English. Well… I guess. But there is no language that they understand.

Pokeumans aren't serious about this war. I'm not kidding. Look at the big picture.

Pokeumans have useless classes. They also have a terrible ratio of rescues. And not to forget that this war is also pointless.

Do you follow?

Nevermind, then. Let me simplify this for you:

The war is basically a small resistance against brainwashing. That's about it. And we just make it last longer, by taking back some pokeumans... that's about it. Think about it. Have you ever saw a single darn mission done to actually SHUT DOWN pokextinction.

No. Don't lie to me. You know it isn't true. Pokeumans are just basically doing a tidbit of this, a little bit of that. No war. It isn't even bloody enough for it to be classified as a bloody SKIRMISH. It's a tea party. A water-balloon fight. A Sesame Street episode. Whatever you want to call it, but one thing is for certain:

This ain't no bloody war.

This war is like the Cold War and TF2 combined. An accurate analogy. Bare minimum of fighting, and when there is, on a scale so small that it's negligent.

...

Excuse me. I didn't mean to insult those whose loved ones were lost for the cause of Pokeumans. I didn't mean it that way. I wanted to say that the war is... it's... The war is... uhh...

...

FINE! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I FEEL? I FEEL AS IF MY FRIENDS, FAMILY, COLLEAGUES, AND I ARE JUST PAWNS IN THIS WAR! JUST PLACEHOLDERS! NOTHING SPECIAL! I WAS BROUGHT HERE BECAUSE I WAS "SPECIAL"! APPARENTLY NOT! BECAUSE WE ARE IN A RANK LOWER THAN SOLDIERS! JUST MAGGOTS! WE DIE FOR A CAUSE THAT HAS NO END! AN ONGOING DISPUTE! WE WILL JUST BE NAMES, ADDED TO THE ONGOING LIST OF CASUALTIES!

BECAUSE DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I HATE THE MOST?!?!?!

…
…
…
…
…

(large watermarks are present over the entire page)

I'm sorry. I... I... don't have a good grip on myself. I shouldn't ever accused your loved ones for anything. They did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. None of us did anything wrong. But I still accused you for an empty reason, with no purpose...

I'm sorry.

...

But I'll tell you what I hate most.

I don't want to sacrifice my life for no reason. I don't want to die, with me making no ripples along the history of the world. I want to be known. I don't want to be just an empty name on a tombstone. I want to live again in the memories of people that I met and changed for the better. I want my name to live on, my mouth to ear, from paper to eye, and from audio tape to ear.

...

People say life is beautiful. I agree, strongly. Life is beautiful. The fact we are alive means life is beautiful. But I would like to add that life is a double-edged blade. Exactly like revenge, except even more unwieldy and unbalanced. And if the blade tips against your bet, the deathwatches are sure to be ticking. And there is no hope for change.

...

Thank you for taking the time to read my feelings. I hope you don't make the same mistakes I. But now I must take my leave.

Goodbye, for now.
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There's too much of everything at this point. Everything's gone far past their thresholds. I could write 50 pages of stuff. But of course, you don't want to read tale after tale. You seek the thesis.

How should you live your life?

I'll tell you right now what it is. I'm not kidding. No riddles, quests or anything stupid like that. Information shouldn't cost anything. So I will freely give it to you, journal, reader, or whoever I manage to call out from the darkness I hurled my words into.

You should live life by focusing on the small details of life.

...

...

...

I'm not kidding. Don't worry about the large decisions that are slapping you across the face right now. As the Bible says, do not worry.

Life is a field. You always harvest what you reap. Use your field to the fullest. Enjoy the bounty of cotton and indigo of the pleasures of life as you choose. But be sure to back up your field again with peanuts of hard work and toil. Be sure to enrich and take care of your field instead of running it dry of essential nitrogen. That will only lead to ruin.

But if you only plant peanuts, cycle after cycle, you will eventually croak and die. What do you have left? Not much. You didn't end up with a heap of riches like some.do. You just have one healthy field. And you didn't enjoy what life offered you. A healthy field that is equivalent to any other ravaged field. Ultimately comes to nothing.

So what, you say. So what have you taught me through this parable?

I say to live in perfect balance. Switch between crops. Live healthy, wealthy, and happy. Work and have fun at the same time. Focus on the happiest times of your life. And I guarantee, you will be satisfied.

Why should I follow your advice, you question.

You don't. I'm still young. Young enough that old people are jealous, but old enough to see the true nature in most things. I am not proclaiming to be Jesus, Nelson Mandela, or Gandhi. Not at all. For all I know, I could be dreadfully wrong. True life should be all hard work. Maybe it's all about play and pleasure.

But I've seen many a person who have sown far to much cotton, and they paid the hefty consequences. Believe it or not, I've also witnessed several whose backs given up from harvesting too many peanuts. I've yet to see a perfect balance. I'll venture into the unknown.

Maybe there isn't such thing. But I'll like to try.
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There's too much to absorb. I overloaded my words bearing great truth. I'll dilute that strong solution for you. Because after a reread, it was hard to understand as well for me.

Basically, the moral of the parable is to live in moderation. Yes, that is the key of life.

Speaking of life, that brings back a hit of déjà vü...

I recall that I once started a journal, and I started it off with my speculations of life. I remember bits and pieces of it. I remeber I only had a few entries in it before I was taken. My clone probably continues to write in it. I wonder what he writes now...

But I continue to question the minds of my fellow facility-mates. My roommates are painfully naïve, but loyal and somehow mature at the same time. There are others where their radiance peeks through. But there are far too many idiots.

I talked about this already. I sincerely think this world is doomed. So I'll do my final death wish before all hell, mayhem, and V-Day breaks out.

I think I need to make some ends meet.

I mean you, new me. You aren't a clone. You are Me, version 2.0. I wish godspeed unto me on my journey.

I hope to see you soon.
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END OF 95% OF JOURNAL OF RECRUIT 372894

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It has been 2 years. I haven't touched my journal for about that amount of time. I set out alone without my trusty partner. But it's been so long, that I only have a vague echo of the craving inside of me.

I laughed at myself after poring over these pages, with I had written in blood. I laugh because even as I try to deny what silly thoughts and cravings I had when I was a naïve fool, when I was a reckless young boy with no directions to steer me, my only GPS were my emotions.

The words I written spoke of agony, pain, and sorrow. But these mere feelings don't trouble me anymore. I dismissed them from my mind several months ago. I learned to be a true sentient being, one with only facts to guide me along the rails.

But even I left these glasses of what I saw behind me, and I tried to gaze upon the sun to find a new meaning of life, to see one where it wasn't distorted and twisted through the glass I saw.

And I became blind.

Not literally. But now I tried to see, I can't see any longer of my final death wish of life.

For the past time I just stumbled along blankly, knocking on random doors, and asked for my salvation, my will to live again.

...

Eventually one took me in as their own, and I recovered. But the feeling lingered, and echoed continuously within me, and I learned, from the ultimate dictator of experience.

I never trusted anyone again.

And I ran away.

Away from the pains of the world, away from all the plagues of life, away from all that haunted me.

And I took with me you, under my arm, tucked so nothing can hurt you.

And if nothing could hurt you, then I am bulletproof.

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It had been my first day out in the real world, the first trial, without any protection of citizenship or the roof, and I could be charged with vagrancy at any given moment.

Worst of all, I had no will to do anything.

Since I had no goal, it made the hours tick infinitesimally longer, and the danger became larger.

I had no choice with the matter. I was to choose something or let myself die as a body, not as a being.

I bitterly decided to finally work to finish my lost end.

I decided to find where my twin self had gone.

Adieu.
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