November 16th, 2023 -
Writing Exercise

Post may be distressing. Post will not be linked on main blog archive. Post is a journal. Do what you want with it.

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I'm very tired.

It's weird to be using a public blog as a journal, essentially. I know this. Maybe I'll take this page down later. Who knows.

As I write this it is 11:11 AM.

I have uninstalled Discord- on my phone last night in a fit of paranoia and on my laptop just now with a feeling of dread.

Last night I cried like a baby about being lonely, about this house being too big, about everything being too scary. I cried and went to find my dog then cried some more when I couldn't explain why I was crying to my mom.

I feel like there is something inherently pathetic to me.
Something inherently pitiable, like a wounded animal or an inexperienced child.

Then I see people passing the pigeons by and people loathing who they used to be and I remember that being pitiful won't save me, it'll just exhaust some and disgust the rest.

I'm an adult.

Do you think I'll survive?

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I took a shower.

It was unkind.
I couldn't enjoy it, even though I tried.
I turned the water hot as it would go, and it still felt like nothing to me.
I couldn't stop thinking about a little girl that doesn't exist.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately. She's not even mine. I barely remember her story, only her crying "nobody loves me" so much that it became a part of her. I can't stop thinking about her.

I haven't dried my hair. It's 11:50. I exited at 11:34. I need to leave at 12:30, or I'll be late to work.

I haven't eaten.
I don't know if I will.

I hope nobody knows me the way I do.

My face is dry. So is my hair. Under the water, it felt like rope. I don't think I'll survive today.

If I do, what even comes next?
I'll force myself to stop writing.

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Work went fine. I survived. Easily. Like breathing. I like people. I need people. I can't be alone.

I think I'm better than this, but I know I'm not. Tomorrow I think I'll feel the same, no matter how I try. I can already feel it getting its claws back into me. If I talk to anyone, they'll be responsible, and I can't let that happen.

At least I like myself.

I like the way I can pretend. I'm good at pretending. I can make a whole little story in my head without even thinking about it. People think it's cool. I do too.

I like how good I can pretend. It feels like a superpower. No matter how lonely I feel it feels so powerful to be able to look someone in the eyes and say I've been doing well. I'm a master of small talk. God, I'm so good at it.

I think I could live forever this way. I think I'm good at it. I think I can survive this way.

I'm clean.
I'm smart.
I'm top of the food chain.
I can do anything.

Have you ever seen a parrot study something curious?

It cocks its head from side to side, eyes pinning, and perhaps it might whistle or bob up and down. It's one of the most intelligent things on the planet, and it loves you.

Sometimes, when I'm numb, I think of a parrot plucking its feathers. It's a coping mechanism. They do it when their environment sucks, or when they're too lonely, or when they're stressed. Sometimes they eat less, sometimes they don't eat at all.

Parrots also scream when they're stressed. They scream for no reason, too, but also when they're stressed. They can also stop making noise when they're stressed. Quiet as anything.

I think about the parrots. I think about the parrot. I think about it, featherless and statue-still.

And I stay in my cage. And I scream.

I wish I could be the animal. At least that way it wouldn't be my fault.

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