The Southern Cross (your nickname sounds cool in English) suggested that I could use my second-native language when uploading posts. I'll try that for a couple of times, but, if you, my dear friends and readers, would rather me not to, I will go back to Russian. I receive satisfaction from writing in both, so it's not a very big problem. Um...what exactly to write about? Today was a weird day, with everybody having depressions or being offended or something else. The funny and, I must say, creepy thing is that I had the most usual day, with no extreme events to talk about. This is not fair! Whenever I've got time to write at ALL, there is nothing to write ABOUT. How does the world suggest mew to become a writer or a journalist (at least in 6-7 years, when I get through with Chemistry) if absolutely no practice is provided? Not fair. I'm repeating myself, but that's done on purpose. After all, no matter how hard I am being hit for making misleading judgements (like the fact that there is SOME fairness in life. That was a stupid thing to say, Sould was right) I still make them! So I'll remind myself of these simple things, just in order not to fail to fulfill my 25-year plan. But, you know, that plan is sort of egoistic...really, I wasn't thinking about that before, but the idea of dying young, protecting my ideas has proved to be completely useless and selfish. First of all, nobody is ever going to understand the reasons. They'll call it "stupid bravery" as they always do, and forget about it. Abd, apart from that, my family and friends are surely not going to be happy about me dying. At least, I suppose they're not. Or are you? Just kidding. Anyway, I might change my mind after all, in case here will me no reason to...well, anyway...that doesn't relate to the topic.

What else to say? I've really enjoyed Shakepeare's Sonet № 66. It's got all my questions in it, put together. In some way, at least. And it...fits. It just fits into my understandng of the world around. The understanding is not as pessimistic, of course, but bad things happen, and we have to face it. Like William did.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.