time has dissolved for me. days and months have fallen away. this room is the manifestation of my existence.
a light in the center of darkness.
the screen is my present, the dimly lit objects are those few thoughts that i can recollect, and the absolute darkness is everything beyond that.
shadows within shadows. the only thing that tells me time is moving has been the steady amplification of pain. the strength of my headaches, the sharpness of my joints, the strain on my eyes. that these have been getting worse tells me i'm still living.
that everything is not just in stasis.
the only escape i have is when i can sleep again, I spend more time sleeping than awake. You could say my real life begins when my eyes close, but I can’t remember much of what happens. It’s mostly back when I was a kid, spending time with those friends I had.
Their faces are all completely forgotten to me now, but I don’t notice that when I’m there. It’s just like how it used to be.
I don’t like these dreams when I’m awake. They’re too obviously telling me that’s when I was happy. That’s when i really existed. I don’t accept such things when I’m awake.
I live in denial. I entertain my fantasies, I daydream about all the things I’d like to do, I believe I’ll really do them. Every once in a while, something will poke a hole in that veil, and terror seeps in.
But I always patch it up, and I’m just left with that mild feeling of unease, that everything is fucking rotten, that the sheer cacophony, the fucking shit heap, the colossally putrid cum crusted fucking catastrophe that is my life, is real and inescapable.
But I can shrug that feeling off. Rather, I don’t believe in it. I believe in my lie. I wouldn’t be able to live if I couldn’t. The projects that I’ll finish, the skills I’ll acquire, The people I’ll befriend. It always looms in front of me,
I’m always moving towards it. Happiness is just ahead of me. Just take one more step. One step at a time.
Even in writing this I can cope. I’m merely writing a character, there’s only a small part of my real self in this. It’s imagined, lightly inspired by myself. Of course, where we differ is I actually am moving toward improving my skills, I really will finish the projects that I fantasize about. We’re different beasts. He’s a madman, so much so that that he’s even one dimensional. I’m much too complicated to be summed up like this.
It’s all so hopeless. I can’t live.
dialogue from a dream
Have you ever seen the face of a woman after being confessed to by a man she finds unattractive? It’s a look of pure repulsion, like they’re being made sick to their stomach. What they’re seeing is the proposition to reproduce from an unfit mate, more or less, and the thing that dominates her mind is what actions she has to take to avoid being raped. The feeling of love is a desire to inflict violence, whether it’s reciprocal is simply happenstance, it’s to exert their will unto another. And yet, we find love a beautiful thing. Countless poems are written, detailing the fluttering of the heart, the warmth that swims in the stomach, the rapture of the mind. In our blissful unknowing our pure hearts are swept up in this guiding force. The meaning of the world, the essence of the soul, is just violence disguised in a ballroom dress. At least that’s what they’d have you believe.
i will never speak my age
I went from being ashamed of being young to being ashamed of being old, with no transitional period. I will always be inferior to all people of every time. In any place the only comfort I can take is that I’m propping up whoever is second worst, at least I can take away the burden from that person. It’s my terminal affliction, whatever the absolute worst position, choice or option is, I’ll be there, with all eyes darting to me, and quickly away. There’s a prickling veil that covers me always and that will never leave until everyone just dies.
The way seasons repeat, months and days come around again, gives us the false idea that we have second chances. That if you miss something you can catch it again when it comes back around. I missed my youth, but I'll just do it right next time. Every moment that passes is lost, and unrecoverable. Every choice is our last chance, we don't live provisional lives.
I've had this recurring feeling, maybe it started in highschool, that the whole world is is on a joke that I'm not. It's not ever present but notably there are moments when things collide in such a way, or someone will speak in a certain tone, they'll subtly reference something that happened to me that they should have no idea about. A couple weeks ago on ************************************************************************************************************************************************************* It's always something admissable like that, something so slight, but they stack up over time and even if I don't believe the world is colluding against me, it's a feeling I can't shake, and contributes to me being very guarded and distrusting. In general how I think things are seem to be contrary to how other people view them, and when things happen that suggest this it's disconcerting in a profound way. I don't know if what I'm seeing is how it is, or if how I'm acting is how I'm acting, or if what someone says is what they're saying. This feeling oppresses me and I imagine is put on me to stop me from leaving my comfort zone, where my ideas aren't critiqued and I'm safe from recognition. When people are aware of me I can't move. Only when free from the eyes of existence am I un-oppressed, until then I'm being physically arrested by thoughts, not just from being seen, from being heard, but just the fact that my existence is acknowledged makes me heart stoppingly scared.
When I was little I was enthralled by the little things. My eyes almost touched the page as I admired the tiniest etchings, down to the individual cross hatchings- no, down to the little bumps on the paper. I was enraptured by the miniature, maybe it's because everything was new to me, maybe it's because I was miniature myself. Now I find myself not even seeing what's before me. As soon as I meet something, my attention is on what's to come; what's after. As a result I'm a constant stranger to the present. I can't experience things directly anymore, let alone be enraptured by the finest details of them. This is what is living second-hand. Not even being able to be present. But the manga Nausicaa brings that back, I have a physical print of it here, I don't think a shitty watermarked png would do it for me, but the drawings in here are really fine. I admire it, it's one of those special things that shuts off your voice and just lets you focus, in silence. Cat Returns is Ghibli's best movie though, sorry Miyazaki.
I love reading YouTube comments, particularly below music videos for classic songs, or lesser known classical works are where you find people who are less wired, and feel like a cut through the printed, manic mirror-self that internet people can only express themselves through, people feeling sentimental and nostalgic, and speak without much regard for appearences, or if they do write to impress they at least aren't afraid of how they'll be thought of, and don't shy away from off kilter, or indeed cliched ways of expressing themselves. I like to read words.
A book without words, a silent song. There's something that can't be expressed by any means, only with absence. A film without film.
I think there's a beauty in omission, in absence.
Do you know that thing, when you focus on something very small and delicate, and your eye's depth of field jitters and cuts out for half a second as you lose sight of it slightly? That's what happens to my heart when I see your name, or a similar shape, on a page. Even before I see the word it will happen and I'll search around and I'll find it somewhere. It's a panic, love is mania.
neet time distortion effect 21.10.21
people wonder how can hikkikomori can let so much of their life go by without doing anything, but what they don't understand is that time for NEETS works differently from regular people.
Normalfags talk about time speeding up as they get older, but for a NEET as soon as you're ready to get started on something, you're already sleepy again, and in this way, day after day gets deleted from your memory.
The years stack up behind you, where you aren't looking. Ten years can have passed but for you things from back then feel like only last week, 6 months ago is just the other day. At the same time, paradoxically, everything feels distant.
It becomes difficult to recall things directly, and memories blend together in a dense fog, intense blackness, it's hard to differenciate the shapes in the dark, murkey pool.
The NEET time distortion effect. A constant, distant present.
there's no telling whether it's better to be alive than dead. I prefer to be asleep, and I prefer dreamless nights, where I sleep soundlessly. There are a lots of things where only the transition to them is painful, and afterwards are good. Dying being bad doesn't mean being dead is. If there's no hell, I'd rather be dead. I'd like to be dead.
the secret is to not focus on it. think about something else, distract yourself, wait until your heart rate goes down, then do it before you can react, without thinking, like it has nothing to do with suicide.
as if it's just a mechanical motion. stripping bark off wood. combing hair. a streak of ink. all you have to do is catch yourself off-guard for 1 second. That's why guns, bridges are the most succesful methods, they take the shortest amount of courage.
One time, when I had an online friend, I was scared of sending a message, so I held a pen above my mouse's left click, and I really was scared, my heart was beating fast, my head was aching, I felt hot, and the pen slipped out of my fingers and sent the message. I didn't even have to click.
is this my arm? it doesn’t look like my arm. it feels weak, when i move it. the veins under my wrist look weird. when did that happen? maybe i just never noticed.
is this my face? didn’t my face used to be cute? maybe i’m wrong. but, at some point it’s definitely changed. i guess this is what it looks like.
is it normal to always feel pain? to always itch, i’m uncomfortable.
the distant sounds of machinery loop endlessly, wrapped in static, masked by the sounds of japanese women making baby noises over digital synthesisers.
Outside the crane flies are waking up, starting their brief lives in the misty eyed heat.
They’ll fumble their first steps as they earnestly strive to live these days to their fullest. Whatever happens, no one can say that they weren’t alive.
I struggle to recall something, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me.
In january 2021 I wrote:
-I feel like I'm living in the end times. Like everything good has passed and I'm just persisting past the credits.
Now I feel the same, but with different words. People like me... Us... Are in a waiting room.
A waiting room for what? You know what. Whatever it is. It doesn't matter. You can't start anything because you don't know when you'll be called, and you can't leave because you've been waiting too long. So you just sit, thinking. You think of everything,
you remember. You feel every way, you become divorced from your body. You watch your hands. You close your eyes and try to see them. After a year, whether your eyes are open or closed, you can see the room, you can see your hands. There's no difference
whether you move them in one world or the other. There's no difference.
You think up melodies, you find descriptions for things. You make melodies so beautiful you cry, you find words that cause you to clench your teeth from spite. You hang on to these, you repeat them to yourself so they aren't obliviated,
like most of your thoughts are. They mutate with time, you deliberate endlessly about whether to change the tiniest details, the enunciation of words, whether to let a note ring out or abrupt. You do this while other details change on their own, from your own faulted
memory. After some years, you don't ever feel bored. Your memory is too tattered to let you be bored. Every moment is exciting, all the things you once knew are novel to you now.
You watch lucky star in your head, you can hear the voices. Konata looks at you between bites of her chocolate cornette, and asks which side you think you should start from. You give every answer, you hear every response, each again and again. You speak Japanese.
She uses the words you invented, she uses words you don't know, she explains them for you. You already knew them.
You know you'll be called one day, but you don't believe it. You don't feel it. But you wait anyway. You don't know what for.
It's as if you're in a theatre, just sitting after the credits have ended, still staring at the black.
How are you able to live like this? Untalanted, Unskilled, Unpersonable, Unintelligent, Unhappy.
You adopt it as your persona. Then the jeering laughing, those upturned brows, sharp cornered smiles. The disdain, disgust and plain neglect all become like old friends.
"Of course that would happen, again, for the uncountable time, that's who I am. That's my fate. Of course my drawing is a horrid scratching- no, an un-evocative, un-remarkablee scratching, that's my fate."
A man likes a truth, a rule, and above all a consistency. To reach out with hope, and every time be rejected is unbearable exruciation, but when you reach out knowing, being absolutely sure that you'll be rejected,
just as all the times before, you do it with a smile. An old joke, long since it's novelty, still forms a smirk.
I'm really unhappy lately, I think about suicide every day. Philisophically there's nothing stopping me from doing it, but I've always been weak and afraid and above all motionless, I don't act, I'm a vouyer and a lurker. Beyond that, ending your life from a scientific perspective is the most difficult thing to choose. More than scratching an itch, more than thirst and cold, avoiding death is strongest. So I admire greatly everyone who ends their lives.
Apparently I'm also an exhibitionist, for making myself public like this. I take respite in that I have no friends, and no family- I mean, this website lives outside myself, it isn't linked to my identity. For all you know, these could all be lies, ironic impersonations of a kind of character. So I should feel less shame than I do. That shame, it may be a clue that I won't really kill myself, even though I believe entirely that I would like to. Well, I'm naked masturbating on a highway.
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