D. G.

It isn't a glamorous matter to have Alan Campbell in one's bed, but beggars are stuck for choice.

In any case, we spent a charming evening at a concert the day before last. I suppose that's the sort of thing one puts in their journal to sound so much pleasantly more engaged with one's life than they really are- though I am keen on Julian's idea of a champagne bottle as compense for suffering three long years with him in January. Can you imagine! It's only two months away.

No-one I speak to is interested in me at present- oh, disregarding the system-members, and that. No, it seems that everyone is more preoccupied with other matters to respond to my letters, calls for attention and whimsical thoughts on how they're all dreadful people. But then, I suppose, that is the nature of friendship.

:)

...

Ha-ha. My hair is not ridiculous. Besides, it's rather rude to assume you're handsomer than I, or rather fit to judge!

  Let me introduce you to what has prompted my introspection as of late.
  One dull and elaborate inquisition which has shaken me from point of arrival here is the very nature of my existence. You have heard of fictionality and creation and the very utterences of your own God-like being now framed as one's "author". The question is- or, at the very least, for my own pressing need it is- what, then, does my own existence play upon the owned words on the page? Let us think, for example, of an example; or rather readily, utilise my own living conditions for the sake of this short-writ article. 
  I am, in every sense of the word, destined to die in war. That is to say the two potentialities which open themselves to me as drawn-out insufferable predictions of my future are as such: 1, that I am to grow up in some manner 'till the beginnings of the 20th century and find myself drawn in - or rather employed - to the ranks of the First World War (helped so much by the immortality which my portrait bears upon me) and thus die over-and-over again 'till I am sick of it all and fraught with tender disease, or, 2, that in bearance with my own novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" I am to murder myself out of vanity and bitterness and stupidity. Now, does my knowledge of the two of these create such a rift in the crafting of creation that I am no longer forced to apply to either? I can, after all, happily ignore the calling to war and my own once upon a time nonsense-belief that a murder of my painting would cure my incurable disease. Would that, then, help me? Would I be free to live my life as is, to use my own foxish methods and escape?- or am I, by my very fictional nature, doomed to a fate that has been writ before my living? 
  It is a terrible thing to plague me so often, but it does and I find myself incapable of stopping it. Why does it turn 'round in my brain? Why says it to me that I am not real, when it is that which is mere possibility and, besides, rather incredible to believe? I don't know. I don't know of what reason or rhyme may play fool to the progression of my life; how, then, should I live it? Carefree, finding neither to be relevant or- indeed, as it is now- worrying endlessly on my eventual ending?
  Tu-rut tut tut. The trumpets of battle warn me away; and that Devilish maze, my face, my playground of fierce sins, calls me to clinging mortality. Shall I die?

Happily I dream; you are the only one I speak to there. I love you. 

At times I think of him- and wonder if we shall ever meet again. Surely we must? Surely, surely, for no world could be this cruel to keep us apart. No life this torn, and love lost. Surely I shall see him again, surely.

She will not care- none of them will. I do not know why I try any longer in this bleak struggle. I have not touched the room that houses my portrait since he left with the key; that is my promise to him, at least, at least. I will not die, not to-day, not when there is still hope of his return.

And I know he must miss me. Surely! Why would he not?- He left for me. I wait for him as I have never waited before. I do not know what has gripped me now- why I feel such lingering passions now! Why never before I have thought to want someone with all my heart and soul so much that even when I am freed from their grasp I want to go back to it. I want to marry him. He is the right one, I know it. I'm waiting, waiting to marry him. I love him so deeply.

Dorian Gray:
       died of a broken heart

I miss you.

- (upon discovery) Julian, I-

It does not matter. Everything I own is his. Woe, woe! Illusions cloud my eyes. I am nothing and no-one. He has control.

Don't look so bitterly at me. It is the truth.

I refuse to speak.

I wish to die. We are all stuck in a madhouse here, each of us madder than the next. I don't quite know what to do. My own self-horror, ennui, these are all things that travel around in endless little circles 'till we clash, horribly.

It is bitter and foul. I despise it not lightly- but what can we do? Oh, mon cher, if you were here to see this- ... you would certainly be repulsed.

My eyes are dry, my eyes are dry.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

- Maybe you think that... it is better we have split.

I love you so. It hurts me.

- Why do I say these messages, that you will never see, never know? Why do I pretend that you will think of me? It is a sorry sight. I doubt- any of this will reach you. I am alone.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

I wonder what we shall do for Valentine's Day? I do look forward to it. Hurrah, hurrah! I love him so. This is ridiculously indulgent. I am sure anyone who bothers to read my "journal" will be fed up now of all I put on it, but never mind that, that is besides the point, for it is, after all, my own journal and I may put what I like on it!

I hope he gives me a card. :) Perhaps I ought to give him one? What then are the customs in a homosexual relationship? It doesn't matter. :)