Last weekend, someone took me to a large suburb house, to feed the owner’s cats. The owners left the country two months ago, and he somehow thought it’s best for his two British shorthairs to be locked in one room, instead of giving them the whole house to wander around. For two months the cats have been kept inside a small room with a caged bird, people come two times a day to feed them, and I was really disgusted by that. I haven’t wrote on this site for a while, I’m getting a bit worse at talking, but typing seems fine, whatever, go on.
When I told my sister about the cats, she said that it’s brutal and the cats are “only being kept alive”. I forgot what my point is. These days I feel like I’m just keeping myself alive, that’s it. I have entertainments, I can go outside, so of course that’s not true, I don’t know. My mental age has been getting…I feel like I’m getting a lot younger. Everything that’s not about me will be okay if I keep myself alive, I don’t even know what’s wrong, most of the times I don’t feel well. If I be good and stay alive, if I act good and keep analyzing their faces, how much milder of a reaction do I need to put on to be liked and not stand out at the same time? That kind of thing. The thirst for individuality disgusts me but I can’t seem to get rid of it. My illusion of self loath and what’s hidden beneath, a bloating ego, what do I know. Someone said a narcissist can still have an inferiority complex, I’m always working towards the wrong direction. To be the best looking in a room, to be the unhappiest in a room, then moving on to larger settings, yet you brag about how insecure you are. Which part of your feelings are true? Acting so much that every character eventually becomes yourself. I guess I can’t read minds after all.