3/5/26 - Like A Tattoo

I look out into a far enough distance, and I can feel it.

The blood doesn't pool into my veins the right kinda way. I can feel it.

I would have hoped to feel different about it today, but I don't. I need to pretend. I need to lie.

She hates me... why do people put on these charades? I just wish they liked me enough to end it for good. I wish she respected me enough to give me a reason.

I understood the decision, even if it didn't make any sense. She's a person. Respect even in the face of emptiness.

I drive back to my apartment with the same feeling every night. I'm fighting against God and nature. I do not believe the Earth mother wants a beautiful life for me. I believe I was crafted to toil and languish. And every day I strain against her designs, she lifts the flail for another lash.

Let me say what we already know to be true.

A loveless life is not a life at all.

Like a scar of age

And with my failure I accept that I will never be ready for love. And I will never be healed.

I must choose life anyways. I must choose to defend the promise of love, even if I can never have it. I can never become selfish, I can never become hateful.

My love is all I have. With it I create a pressure for the core of my being. With it I create kindness. And with it I remain precious, even as I chip and scratch away into sediment.

For this promise, I will never come to know the pleasure of a Roman Holiday.

In my days and nights I do nothing but *click*. To the next song, to the next station. To let a feeling linger is like a spiritual crucifixion. I guess I let the final nail be my struggle against Gaea. Figures.

The surfing is another manifestation of the same thesis I made so long ago. The vulture comes home once again, what a blessing. On those waves lies the carrion I desire. I can be only what the child within me would have always wished to become.

What could I possibly be? I could only be a pirate.

When he found that rigour was not expected from his people (for he often practised it to appease them), then he would give strangers to understand that it was pure inclination that induced him to a good treatment of them, and not any love or partiality to their persons; "For", says he, "there is none of you but will hang me, I know, whenever you can clinch me within your power."

While I would like to emulate the example of Samuel Bellamy... I find myself drawn towards the image of Captain Roberts.

For this, in my mind, is the truest path for one who lives without love.

Why be hero?

3/4/26 - Drinking Age

Advisory

This blog entry contains discussion of depression, suicide, and other difficult material. If uninterested, please refrain from reading.

The first word I'll write my diary entry around is "coagulation"

I often write about this concept of vampire billionaires sucking the blood from the world and using it all to make a throne of blood. The idea was that the longer we wait to stop them, the more their throne coagulates and solidifies.

I feel like we missed the first signs of hardening and now we're scrambling to make do with the time we've got. So few mean to actually use any "bleach" to stop them.

You can tell that this isn't how I usually write these. Yeah.

5-6-7-0-9

Back pain is killing me these days... I'll stop whingeing.

I'll tell you what's changed. I don't see a way out of the labors. I'm not really looking to stop the vulture from getting his meal. I'm choosing to be more... easygoing, I guess.

To say less, to be less. Tout dou, tout dou, tout doucement...

The next word to consider is "Jazz."

Blossom Dearie settled my nerves again. And what moves my ruminations more effectively than Dizzie Gillespie? A Night In Tunisia, I could never thank Mr. Burkett enough.

I still believe Jazz is a daunting endeavor. It's a terrifying medium.

I'm getting too esoteric. Jazz music, to me, is a lot more important and significant than the word "Jazz" could mean to encapsulate. Jazz is, in my mind, a kind of psychological state of being. It's like a social expertise of leisure.

I'm sorry... a smart kind of relaxation. I'm not trying to be funny here. I'm trying time teach myself to be less literary, more diaristic.

Again...

Less wordy, more real. I'm not editing or erasing this, you must know. I'm genuinely self editorializing as the words are put on the screen. No AI.

Jazz is too real. Right now I'm listening to Charles Mingus and getting all kinds of depressed.

That's not a joke or anything. What I do is "Jazz." Miles didn't like that word. I'm a lightweight on Jazz. And I want to unlearn my love for it.

You might be asking, why? Why would you ever want that? You said you loved Jazz?

Yes, yes... I can tell you the reason.

I want to understood by other people. I want to be seen. It's just vanity stuff. Very trite and self interested.

I mean, it's really airheaded and pretentious. I guess I just came to realize that the people that catch my eye don't seem to care for what makes me who I am. Two different people I met on the apps seemed not to like me that much. So I need to be less like myself. More like them.

It's the wrong mindset. It is not the correct lesson to learn, and it's not even close to being accurate on what went wrong or what I need to change. But I'm just so tired. I'm so tired.

I'm so tired that I'm basically allowing myself to give in to a mindset and thinking that I know is incorrect and harmful.

It's a kind of tired that makes me feel like I'm already dead.

I think part of the problem is I don't make an effort to mask. My life is really frustrating and difficult, and I'm happy about a lot of things, but I don't feel a need to sugarcoat that fact. I think being raped changed my perspective on reality.

I became a sort of person that doesn't value the necessary faces we should be wearing. I'm learning to put mine back on.

It's not ever going to be chic to be truly vulnerable. 

In my eyes, willingly sharing my music with somebody I trust is meant to be an act of love and respect. But I don't think it carries any weight. I don't sound like love. My music doesn't touch people, not in any meaningful way. So I think I'll stop doing that.

It's just another day of depression. It's nothing new. It's nothing real.

There it is. That felt more personable. I made it stupid, and it worked better.

I don't think I like this. I prefer the esoteric stuff. It feels more honest.

The sky is a blank sheet of grey. The air is cold. And I'm psychologically dying.

I just can't believe I thought I was doing well. I really thought I could have something nice...

Cronkite told me not to take everything personally... yeah, he's right. But it just makes it worse. Because it could mean there was nothing I could do. I was a fluke. It shouldn't have ever happened.

I guess it's entirely possible there's a sort of age regression at play with the depression. But I'd have to accept that this is what every day was for me, when I was younger. I don't remember what it's like to not be depressed.

I would leave me, too.

I know my sister sees me as lesser than. I won't engage with my feelings, not in the apartment. They don't treat me very kindly unless they want something from me. I don't think they're a bad person. I think they're normal. So it's not worth mentioning.

My parents are nicer to me because they miss me.

I used to kindly text my friends and do small talk on the phone when I felt depressed like this. It helped until I started thinking... I don't think they want to hear from me anymore. I'll never know.

I've just been doing normal words, and I'm doing pretty good. This is working, I think.

I'm going to take a nap. And I'll forget all of this when I wake up.