hoppas jag dör i sömnen i vilken del av hjärnan kändes det här någonsin bra. nej, det var ju det. ingenstans, ingen gång. hoppas jag dör. hoppas jag dör med allt mellan himmel och jord i systemet.

Hahahaha alltså ska BRÄNNA!!! in denna lycka i folks ansikten, helst asjobbiga folk man en gång känt som nu är lika välkomna som ruttna klumpar längst in i kylskåpet.

 

Vi satt alltså i skype i fem och en halv timme igår, till halv tre på morgonen i min tid, och jag bara sov. Från midnatt och framåt, bara sov medan han pratade om sin dag i mina hörlurar, återfick medvetandet då och då och vi bara tittade, bara tittade på varandra som dumma djur. Han bara log.

 

Jag älskar dig.

"Jag älskar dig med."

Vad stilig du är.

"Nej men nu lägger du av-"

copy+paste från den andra där jag faktiskt kunde skriva långt. för jag dras också i gruset ibland

 

do you ever get really tired of what you build

i have the luxury of actually having nothing to stop me from doing every day things other than the extreme pointlessness of existence hitting me in the face every three seconds and if i were any other person or maybe just five seconds younger i would gladly argue that intelligent people are more prone to depression

i’m clean of all diagnoses or at least as far as i’m concerned because i haven’t seen a doctor since i stopped breathing one night when i was seven

i can make appointments and i can take meetings so when i say i’m scared of walking out and actually doing things it’s not that i’m anxious or awkward

i just don’t want to be reminded yet again that in this life i am only the numbers in the system standing in relation to the name given to me at birth and despite the attempt to give me the longest full name (five) in gothenburg i am still only an assigned gender and sometimes a jumbled up middle name - first name on my letters from the state

i built them up to fit my vision of everything i ever wanted and admired and now i hate them for every time they wear the titanium spikes in their ears, every time they walk the marble stairs with their wooden heels, every time children whisper about them on the tram, every time they continue to fuck up their healing process

i’m so tired of no portion of pride or self-comfort coming without some sort of objectification, i want the specific complexes to show themselves to me so i can destroy them, point out which trauma it is, let me know why the shame is inescapable

i’ve been so happy but not with myself, not ever

and i don’t understand where my place is or if it’s here it all

what is my existence and how can it consume me without ever showing itself to me

i’m not upset, i just wanted to write again; the notebooks on my shelf are too obscure for me to understand anymore, my scribbles have surpassed my own conscious mind

i’m not upset but i still cry as i write this