journal-of-an-unhappy-human

[journal-of-an-unhappy-human]

Daily Post 01 02

I’m normal now.  I’m normal now. I’m being normal.  I’m doing normal.  “How are you doing? How’s it going?”  Normal.  I’m on a normal one.  I’m being so normal you’d probably suspect something else was up.  But there isn’t.  I’m just being normal.  I don’t have much to talk about when I’m normal.  I don’t have much to talk about when I’m not normal.  I feel anger towards myself for the lack of expressiveness. I want to express.  I feel a disconnection.  There is no greater wisdom that I can pull from.  I beg the Earth to hear my pleas.  I am not swallowed up.  I remain whole as the waves crash back and forth. I want out.  I want out.  I want out.  I want out.  There is no out. And I scream and I kick.  There is no out.  And I thrash and I lash and I bash.  And there is no way out.  These are all that we have. And I feel fear.  Constant fear.  Of what we have.  Of who we have. I do not feel safe.  I do not feel comfortable with the leaders of the world.  The world is run by power and money and interest, not by morals or hearts or love.  The world is run by dogma and the adherents most willing to seize what can be.  I feel that fear in my daily life, I feel like I am moments away, always, from having someone near me reach out and dismember me.  I see them lunge.  I feel their faces contort into ghastly toothy grins.  And then they are sitting still in front of me.  But that’s not happening now. They���re all gone.  I’m alone.  The shadows lunge when I think too much.  I prefer being alone because I can’t really hurt people when I’m by myself.  That isn’t true.  I can hurt myself.  I do.  Not physically.  Not on purpose.  Mentally, on purpose.  Physically, by accident.  I spend too much time focusing on myself.  I am incapable of changing that as I stand.  My narcissism is too entrenched.  It battles every other psychic force in my head.  I am self centered.  I shouldn’t be.  I can’t leave my head.  It hurts.  It hurts.  It hurts.  It aches.  I want to feel normal.  I want to feel normal.  I want to feel normal.  I don’t like it when I feel the need to get out of here.  Here can be anywhere.  Here can be everywhere.  And there’s never anywhere to go.  I need to be alone more.  I need to stop hurting others.  I can’t stop hurting others.  I need to learn to love.  I hate everyone I’ve ever met.  I hate everyone I’ve ever talked to.  I hate talking.  I hate talking.  I hate talking.  I can’t fucking talk.  It hurts.  I do not know how to communicate effectively.  I do not know how to communicate correctly.  I only know how to hurt others.  I only know how to speak with malice.  I only feel malice.  I hate others for how much they make me feel.  I hate others for how much they make me feel.  Leave me alone.  Leave me alone.  I love who you all are, but I can’t take it.  THE EXPECTATIONS NEVER END.  THE OBLIGATIONS NEVER END.  THERE IS NO RESPITE.  THERE IS ONLY ANOTHER FAVOR TO PERFORM.  THERE IS ONLY ANOTHER TASK TO DO.  AND I BURDEN OTHERS LIKE THIS AS WELL.  THEY SHOULDN’T LET ME.  I DO NOT DESERVE TO BURDEN OTHERS.  IT IS NOT MY PLACE.  I should be killed.  I should be dead.  I should have died long ago.  I should **** ******.  I should.  But I won’t.  If I died, it would be good.  I should find a way out.  Maybe one of the cracks in the walls will work.  Maybe if I push hard enough.  If I pry hard enough.  If I pick away for long enough.  Maybe there is an out that I just need to find.  I should try finding a dictionary.  I should try finding a psychologist.  I shouldn’t.  They’re just jumping through the motions like everyone else, and they don’t need someone like me in there.  I’d just be another pain there.  Maybe next time.

[journal-of-an-unhappy-human]

Daily Post Attempt 01 01

On and on, it flashes.  As if I am talking, it flashes green.  Over and over.  I am not talking.  I do not perceive myself as talking.  My brain does not think I am talking.  I speak in my mind.  The light flashes on.  I am not talking, but I see it.  No one else is talking.  It is as if I am talking.  I don’t hear the speaking.  I am begging, I am pleading, I can hear them speaking to me.  Directly to me.  Through their actions, they torment me.  They torture me.  They know how to hurt me, in specific, by showing me themselves as they are.  They are themselves, and good lord I need you to know.  It hurts to hear and see them.  This call drags on and on.  I am in hell.  Not Hell. hell.  I know this sounds preposterous, but god sent these people to torture me.  They exist, in this moment, socially, to inflict pain onto me.  And I let them.  Because I hate myself.  I let them spit in my face.  And they do it.  They hate me to my face and, due to manners, I will let them over and over.  Over and over.  Over and over.  It flashes over and over.  And I lose.  Every time.  I lose every time because that is the way the world goes.  It goes and goes around and around.  I’m just bad word association.  I haven’t written this poorly in months.  I love writing like this.  It’s honest to how I feel.  I like being honest.  I lie constantly.  There is nothing I feel on the inside that isn’t just a reflection of how I see the outside work.  It hurts over and over.  Over and over. Over and over, and I let it.  My thoughts are repetitive.  I have them over and over.  Over and over.  Over and over.  I can’t break the cycle.  I am locked in my thoughts.  Thoughts contain the world. Physicalism is correct.  It is, and if you deny that, I think you fundamentally cannot comprehend how the universe is capable of feats of specificity so much more insane than anything you can think of. It is impossible to exist with these people, and I try my best, which isn’t very good.  And I beg and I plead, please let me just exist. And I hurt people.  Constantly.  And people hurt me back. Constantly.  And then I’m unhappy because, oh god, do I have to be happy all the time?  No, I just never feel the level of comfort and ease that I probably should at some point during the day.  Or maybe I just need more sleep.  Probably that.  Can’t fix that now.  Focus on here.  I feel a constant deep fear that people will, one day, recognize just how fake I am and they will, all together, band up and tear me to shreds.  I can not feel anything solid.  It’s all intangible.  And that intangibility is where art is meant to lie. It’s where you can be creative.  Where you can fill in gaps left by the space between things.  And in there, I find I fill it mostly with dead air.  More empty space.  Let the cracks overtake the street. Let the world drown in blood, but make it clean.  Make the blood renewable.  Buzzword soup.  I love making buzzword soup, but I’m literally the worst at it.  Everyone hates me.  This [PERSON] I’m talking to just told me to kill myself because I’m not playing a video game well.  He does this to hurt me.  He thinks I like pain.  I am in pain.  I do not like it.  Everything collapses back down. Mounds made in soft dirt.  Rainwater washes away all.  I think I should just end it most days.  About a year ago, I could not manage an hour without needing to verbalize this.  I have gotten better. The green light has stopped.  It is back.  I am so over.  Over and over I tumble.  Over and over I tumble.  It is over.  And now I edit. And I edit.  And I edit.  And I edit.  Goodbye.  Goodbye.  Goodbye. Goodbye.  Goodbye.  Goodbye.