Graphic Journal: March 28th

29 Mar

I’m a bastard, and this is coming off as self-indulgent fuck.  This is nowhere near to me opening up.  This is nowhere near to me sharing emotions.  This is nowhere near to something.

I’m glad that my fingers and hands are coated in superglue because now, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t completely feel the delicate textures behind anything.  All I feel is the pressure behind me putting my fingers violently down like a judge’s mallet in the patterns of my downfall onto this keyboard.

I have sewn the seeds to me leading an unhappy life 7 years ago, and I cannot, for the life of me, remove any of those defenses.  If I get close, then I shut down.  I freak out.  I die a little.  My head constricts and then I realize that this fucking headache is here all the time.  That this fucking line matching with this fucking line matching with this fucking line crossing over to this fucking line will always be with all of the fucking lines for the rest of my life.  I am no longer living in a sea of reminders, I am my own, personal reminder.  I am drawing up the pail from the well and it is coming back empty and cold and splintered.

I’m sure there’s a sparkle, a gleam.  I’m sure that my well meaning attentions can be construed as something emotional.  However, I don’t feel much.  There’s a wall of thirty coats of barbed wire where I can see the other side to Emotionland, but I get pricked when I try to climb and I get spelling errors when I try to reason and I get diarrhea of the brain when I try to fight back.  My metaphorical heart is on vacation to fairytale land, living inside of the witch’s oven.

I am fake.

I am not ready.

I want to be ready.

I am fake.

I am sewing the seeds of an unhappy future with one syllable at a time; Phonetics have failed me.

This is self-indulgent.

I am a mindless fuck.

I want you.

For once, I hope all of my plans fail.

I need another reason.

I need to cause drowsiness or dizziness; I want to not be able to operate machinery.

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