I enjoy losing. I enjoy going down and deeper than down. I should torture myself more and keep more to myself. I should light myself on fire in the middle of the town square for everyone to see. Only the group conscious makes something real. I have no choice but to fall in love with the things my brain brings me, I have no choice but to fall below it and miss it when it’s gone and go crazy when it’s here. I don’t understand how they don’t understand that logic or common thinking cannot be applied. Every thought boils down to either killing myself, which is lighter now due to me slightly getting better, and the fact that I am incredibly, mind shatteringly jealous. No one get what’s coming to them, but us. When we sit and torture ourselves and pray and pray that some day they’ll get their consequences, they live happy and well. They don’t even have to pray, or put in a thought, because I fall straight down myself! When they want me to fall, I fall.
Whether it is the unbearable beauty that I’ll never be able to express, that they won’t ever experience, or the visions or memories. Just like Yihan I’ve taught myself to fall in love. The texture of that pain, from yourself to yourself, easy to snap in half like an apple, crisp, bitter, unseen for, obliviously happy of its existence. I know everything and nothing about myself. I hate every part of every thought that comes to be. I hate how I’m aware that I hate my appearance but also understand that it is a privilege for people to be more sympathetic when I am going crazy. And the apple textured bite of that shielded love for your own out of control mind. To be unique, to be a contradiction, to be something that makes a young woman more beautiful, to be someone to find whatever they typed more disgusting and unbearable, to be someone who has put themselves in a suit of everyone but who they are now can’t find anything inside. To be someone who realizes how disgustingly tumblr that phrase was. The recent paranoia, knowing that a person has every string of what’s to destroy me and I can’t even talk like I’m a real person. The wave of depersonalization derealization in the afternoon. I hate how it’s getting worse, I hate how I can open my eyes in the morning to not find it to be swollen yet still neatly folded like a girl making origami, carving deep in each edge with her nails to neaten everything up. How I bring up memories from the past which completely didn’t affect me at all and keep thinking over and over about it until they’re now all colored in black and in a void without my true self to paint the picture.
I’m afraid of myself, I’m afraid of what I will do. I at least have one person to talk to for somethings that talks me down my thoughts. I’m afraid of the freedom I have left. I don’t want to kill anyone but myself(really?). I don’t want to dream of dead infants again. Freud, mind explaining? To add on further to my disgusting, narcissistic self analysis? My exterior self is not going to lose, once again, to armor myself up, to feel a slight sense of power, to find some value in myself, just a little, would be enough (never!). I hate how I believe in every thought that comes to my head, I hate that I’m not getting worse, I hate how even at my worst this past year I’m not falling as deep as where I was two or one years ago. I hate how there’s nothing to kick me or the chair below me as I’m trying to climb down from the translucent noose.