Saturday Morning, March 17th

12:10 - Liftoff

12:30 - Flirting with the Canon AJ Mod. transient experiences sort of.. become a prt of ous, no resistance, is old hat, is strange. odd oddcurens- cjack, cough, we wait, and then we continue..


12:50 -Drifting, pleasant, sensation, is nice is good is nice is good is s fake but so is reality this is an escape and we are running.. and it is good

People don't care about me
I do not care about me
I am a shamed of myself
A fat waste of flesh living off his parent's pity. Friendless. Companionless. And yet has known them. And lose them, with burned scars. I am a freak. Disgusting.

The moment. White concrete staircase black steel railing shaky, steps wall-worn and rock,y, walls papered with advertisments... the cafe was always clean, clean, clean, seats in the right places, set up against the window, while outside large round tables sat like taf spinning top..

She said, she'd rather I not come this tome. It was majority vote. Unanimous. Everything. Every single person I had met, every friend I tought I had formed.. unanimous. Rejection.

Saw myself for first time for what I was. Every aspect of what I am. The kind of person I am, have been, will be. Realized... and could think then of only eradication.

An hour of cold, staring at the clock. 11:40. 11:40. dim light. Empty chairs. Wooden. Pattern of pavement engrained. Pond beneath the clock. 10:40. 10.40. I'm me. Drowned the pills. Died.

Body Was revived and sent to psych ward. Boring. Tedious. White. Didn't want to talk. Caused problems in not talking.Couldn't do anything. Family visited. Family didn't know what to say. Family wanted me to know I was there. Family didn't come out and hold me. No friends can.
Nobody came to visit.

No one would know if I vanished.. or no one would care.

Everything avoids that moment. It's a paradox. The steel holding up the abdomination of flesh and scarred wounds oozing us. I have seen what I am, and I utterly loathe myself for it.Nothing I can can ultimately have value from someone like me. Just stories.

So easy to break me. So few defenses I can raise.

So tired of fighting. So tired.

What is it like out there.. with real friendship circles?
Do people.. come and visit you, just because?
Do you hang out for no reason but that you enjoy their company? Give gifts despte protests, because you love them? Love them whole heartedly, for accepting you?

This is this great beast of me, this great reality that no one can touch. I talk to people through masks, faces. Praying that one day I'll become the mask.

Despair is the worst of all sins.
To have no hope. and I have none.

I choose to live anyways. To fight. To struggle.

I want to tell my story. The story of a pony so intricately combined with hope, and despair. Who chased her dreams at all ends, and despaired. She is my character, in the end, representing a vague mishmah of time and mouse clicks in the visual medium, trying to evoke the sensations that define me.

I want to tell this story. I Must tell this story.

I know how this story ends. And people must-need-require- to know- what it feels- to know-that we can fight
even
after
we give up

1:25 am

2:18 am Discussion with fellow medicine takers leads to conclusion that I am not addicted; I am growing a TOLERANCE to it and being forced to take more to get the same effect. This is similiar to addiction, howver, I was able to go without it twice for a week without craving it or fighting against alternatives. So I may STILL be addicted, but at the very least, not as much as I think I am, and taking more to get the same effect is a safe idea -for now-. I need to call a doctor.

So yeah, I'm gonna live. Because for just a few moments, I was part of a community talking to each other, admitting things and sharing, and giving advice on how to best save my life. It felt.. nice..