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<p class="pageTitle">Skrifter</p>
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<p class="large">SoMe</p>
<p class="small"><span class="data">Delta</span><span class="data">2022-09-11T16:52+02:00</span></p>
<p class="small">Ifm. eng. skr. fremstilling vedr. SoMe.</p>
<p>Dear Diary,</p>
<p>Today marks another day on this world, and all appears to be the same, with the exception of the slightly different weather outside. Yet, people seem to cherish this rising and setting of the sun like any other, loving each other in the meantime.</p>
<br />
<p>Viewing the different frontpages and posts on the Web shows this. People enjoy themselves and their partners – as always – and it's no secret.</p>
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<p>Perhaps it's just me that's uninteresting.</p>
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<p>And this is very much akin to real life: For no matter where you go, you'll see people having a real life, with real friends that care about them.</p>
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<p>Maybe I'm just not a good friend.</p>
<br />
<p>My presence is miniscule. It's almost like I'm a phantom: A spectator of this world. And even in real life it feels like that, even when I wish otherwise. But, alas, this may be the best case.</p>
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<p>For all one knows, this could be my destiny.</p>
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<p>This is not to say I have never felt wanted, but it seems to always end with the people I love and whom I thought loved me simply forgetting me.</p>
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<p>But blaming them will get me nowhere. I must move forward.</p>
<br />
<p>But in the end, I log off, and lie, contemplating the late day, waiting for the darkness and silence that encapsulates each passing day. Hope decreases, but never vanishes completely.</p>
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<p>For there's always another day tomorrow.</p>
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