Dear Diary,
This is Alex, writing for the first time solely for myself. It's a bit challenging, not knowing where to start, but I'll let my thoughts flow without worrying about the sequence.
It's kind of nostalgic to think I would be writing to all of you, and it would be narrated by someone. There is so much to say to you, but I will keep this as short as I can.
To those who lend their ears to these final reflections, I extend my sincerest wish for a life imbued with happiness. I bid farewell to the confines of this palace, a place that has encapsulated my existence for now eighteen years. Profound gratitude is owed to those who have played a role in shaping my life within these opulent walls.
Despite my royal lineage, I have endured a anguish childhood, leaving with deep scars and a burning desire for freedom.
This empire, my birthplace and crucible of my upbringing, harbors a trove of memories—both cherished and shrouded in darkness. The mantle of a crown prince demanded a strategic dance, akin to a king's gambit on a chessboard. The gravity of my role, akin to that of a monarch, rendered me cautious. A chess game unfolds where, if the king falters, so too does the kingdom.
Though not yet an emperor, the expectations bestowed upon me necessitated a regal demeanor. The suffocating constraints compelled me to refuse to give up my true thoughts, as if an unseen presence lingered, probe my every move.
Nostalgia spread throughout my reflection on the days spent within these hallowed halls. Yet, the question lingers—can the omissions in our words inflict more profound psychological wounds than the tangible blows of physical harm? The echoes of disparaging words, whispered in the shadowed corridors of the palace, have left indelible scars on my psyche. Palace maids, siblings, ministers—each a contributor to the symphony of disdain that orchestrates my emotional turmoil.
The isolation, the disparagement—the silent battles waged within the recesses of my soul remained concealed, known only to the veiled shadows of despair. Suicide became an unwelcome companion, a desperate attempt to escape the shackles of emotional torment, unnoticed by the oblivious denizens of the palace.
In this regal abode, fairness and compassion were elusive virtues. Despite my endeavors and contributions to the kingdom, acknowledgment remained elusive. The weight of contempt bore down upon me, rendering every effort futile.
Even as the Crown Prince, autonomy was but an illusion. The minutiae of life—food, attire, meetings, words—prescribed by others. A puppeteer orchestrating a façade, concealing the authenticity that lay dormant within.
Eighteen years of duty, devotion, and sacrifice for an empire that flourished in the absence of bloodshed. My siblings enjoyed the pursuit of their desires, the emperor reveled in opulence, and yet, my existence remained a distorted reflection—unseen, unacknowledged.
Roads, bridges, schools—a legacy of infrastructure built; soldiers, farmers—a populace cared for; peace brokered among nobles—yet, the shadows of ingratitude persisted. A promise, a sacred covenant born of a mother's final wishes, tethered me to a responsibility that could not be unveiled until the precipice of life's conclusion.
In the tapestry of my narrative, the threads of duty, sacrifice, and unspoken agony weave a complex mosaic. The symphony of my silence now echoes in these parting words.