I know not why I feel the need to write on this day. It is no more special than yesterday, nor will it have been more special than tomorrow. It is simply the anniversary of something I never wished for.
My assumptions have been proven correct. The others seem to think that I reported the harassment of those three to Bishop De Borel, and that it was this that resulted in their expulsion. That this is untrue does not matter. They have reached their conclusion, and it would be a waste of my energy to attempt to convince anyone otherwise. Besides, whether they detest me due to a perceived breach of propriety, for my work ethic, or for my looks, the result is always the same. In the end, I will always be alone.
I am reminded of my time with the Blacksmith. In that town, where the mutterings of my cursed existence were abound whenever I dared emerge from the smithy. My sin was always my birth. But I was also never good enough. Not strong enough, not dull enough, not sorry enough. The only thing I was ever praised for was my silence, and even then, it was only because it meant I would not disrupt the Blacksmith’s hangovers.
I will never forget the night I returned from the chapel, ready to show the Blacksmith that I could write. I thought that we could finally come to understand one another, now that we could communicate. My knowledge was seen as arrogance, and jealousy rose into anger. It was the first time he had struck me. It was more shocking than painful. For both of us. When I look at my peers, sometimes I see his face. Those three resented me so, projected onto me an arrogance I have never had. Was that, too, because I represented something which they never had? I do not know, and it does not matter.
I still have yet to speak more than a few passing phrases to Mister Lamperos. For two weeks now, he has not slept in his own bed. Is my existence so hateful to him that he cannot put himself to rest while I am near? Have the rumors of my treachery found roots within his heart? It would not explain his absence throughout last week, even if such a thing were true.
Who am I to turn to? If we are to work together, and if I am to attempt to form bonds on this retreat, how is it possible to do so whilst my peers find me insufferable? Perhaps it is my fault. Perhaps I have allowed myself to grow complacent. Perhaps my time with Bishop Kramer has made me forget the lessons I had to learn so long ago. Perhaps I really am worthless without her. I have only been away from Saptagiri for two weeks, and already I find that I am unable to properly function on my own. People have called me a prodigy, but it is only because I am not dependent upon others to further my own research. Maybe the truth is that I never was any more talented than anyone else. Maybe the truth is simply that I was born lucky.
Why am I even still here? To suffer? The reality is that, for the past eighteen years, I have only held delusions of companionship. I have always been alone, and I lack the faculties to resolve this issue. I will always be alone. It is fruitless to fight it. It is my natural state. I am better off this way. These sleepless nights allow me to conduct my work without interruption. This solitude forces me to rely upon the only one I ever could. So long as I complete the task, I will be fulfilled. I do not need anyone else.