Two journal entries don't happen every day, doesn't happen very often. But, here we are.

I have not stopped crying since I punched out from work. I got wrapped up in 20-30 year old memories and spent my free time on the clock, of which there is plenty on Sundays, Googling people and places from when I was half as old as I am today. And it was, in a word, depressing. I do not recommend it and I am uncertain how I ended up doing it in the first place. I couldn't find myself or anyone I found important at that time, but I almost had to throw up a floodgate for results I wasn't looking for and - at the original time - thought I might be lucky enough to never recall or be a subject to. People who made life very difficult and unpleasant. Who have gone on to do so-called "great things". How is that possible? That the worst of my graduating class are the best off? Fuck, I hate life.

It is so gotdamn difficult to be such a hopeful and idealistic person that is so utterly hopeless, depressed, and nearly imobilized. And it just doesn't make sense. I can barely pull myself out of bed to earn the money necessary to pay the rent for which the bed sits under. However. When I speak with people or am asked for advice or look at the world, I am full of hope and relevant advice that is tried and true. But I cannot seem to keep myself in check, as far as all of that goes. I'm a mess. But I want you to be the best, and wish it in earnest.

I have heard about soul fragments, in passing. Something about how truly traumatizing events in someones life can leave soul fragments behind. Essentially, very real and true pieces of a person get lost or devoured. According to some, there are rituals that can be done to retrieve these supposed fragments. I am not so sure how I feel about or how much I believe that these so-called soul fragments can be retrieved, but I definitely 100% believe that you lose parts of who you are when you are abused or mistreated or have pulled the short straw in a relationship that results in some sort of trauma or another.

It is incrsaingly hard to not just cash it in. I just don't understand. Even if I'm able to look from the outside inward, if this is a simulation and I just get up from my bed to go to work at my desk in order to be able to go to bed afterward. What. The. Fuck.

I found some old poetry of mine. Most of it is awful. Some of it is mediocre. Even less of it is ok. All from 22+ years ago.

This is one of the better ones. If for no other reason than as soon as I re-read it I was instantly transported to the time I wrote it and the feelings I had which prompted me to write it.


now i'm walking on stilts
through your eyes
that disappear
when you smile.
i try to swim
through folds of flesh
i wish i didn't
know so well.
digging holes in
soil tainted
with blades of a shoulder
that sit atop
your back
like prizes and trophies
awarded to you before
and after
i was a part of this
on display in
averyone's museum.

simply titled:


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