journal

Intense, jagged marks scrawl across the paper, varying in size and location to one another. A dim light dusts the room gently, the ink seemingly casting shadows on the paper. These barely legible symbols still form words despite their ugliness and how they seem to trail off near the end of each sentence. His words, derived from complex notions and thoughts are so quickly filtered into words that his hand can barely keep up. Wrist cramps have been a common enemy since childhood. He often wonders what his handwriting has to say about him. Why was it so bad in the first place? What would an analyst say? He’s often been told that he has “doctor” or “serial killer” handwriting; somehow these dichotomous descriptions hit home for him. All his life he felt he could relate on all levels of the outcast spectrum, from being remarkably intelligent for his age as a child to becoming a remarkibly un-social adult; he grew up in his head. He tries not to blame anyone for how he’s turned out so far, no one has ever directly harmed him; though sometimes he thinks that’s his problem. He doesn’t feel like he knows himself, constantly wishing that something would happen that just hits him, some undeniable proof of something.

Scratching continues on the paper, barely reaching his ears despite the silence of the room; nothing can drown out what the brain is telling you.

“How do people define the way they value their own lives? I’m concerned that the focus of my life thus far has been entirely insular. Focused on myself, my needs, wants and desires to the point of developing neurosis surrounding my self-perception and relationships with others. There is so much to this world and the depth with which I see other people experience life makes me feel like I am not seeing things clearly, my senses seem deadened and blocked out by some sort of influence that I don’t know whether or not I can control. What, then, is my recourse? To what or whom do I appeal in order to gain the insight I seek. Here is my problem, I feel that my focus is so insidiously focused on my own personal satisfaction with my life that it has seeped into every thought, action, and desire that I have; even the ones that seem philanthropic in nature. Now I am not sure that there can exist such a concept as true altruism in human behavior, but I do not feel that I am devoted to others.”

He’s reading as he writes, thank God no one else is gonna see this agnsty, pompous bullshit. Self hate is a motif in and outside of his “work”.

“I’m disappointed because I was expecting something significant to happen today and I’m having a hard time understanding why I feel like that when I have more energy I expect the world to give me things that I want even though I really don’t do anything to get those things why am I sitting and waiting I don’t know.”

Punctuation apparently damned now, he’s working himself up again. Caught in a whirlpool of self analysis and hate that spirals down and down for hours, sometimes days.

And without regard for anything but getting his shit out:

“Somehtoing is not right her e, like what am i sitting here wsasting my tiome for if all i am foing to do is just ficking sit her waiting for someone to give me instruvtions on hoew to go about kmakig muy dya as ghrshj f”

Full panic mode. Thoughts screaming so loud he can’t even tell what they’re saying, his hand moving frantically though he knows he has control he continues intensly almost scribbling now.

“Im tired no one’s gonna read this anyway”.

And as usual the paper is crumpled and tossed, what a waste of time he would think to himself, and of my potentail!

I’m a good writer Damnit!