1st of January 2023, I was writing my best guess on how a suicide victim feels before killing themselves. How peaceful it shall be? I compared it to hitting bed after a long day.
Beginning of 2022, I was trying to find comfort in The Stranger by Albert Camus which is still my favourite novel and likely to remain so.
2021, for the lack of records I question that year's existence.
Sometime in 2020, I wrote on the back of a notebook, “I feel like dying.” Pathetic for a 12/13 year old.
I don't recall having a diary/journal before that. What can you expect from a kid who hasn't hit puberty yet—of course talking about the old me. _____________
Though I remember little fragments of the past year through journal entries, it feels so far away. That's natural, you might say, which I agree with. But reality becomes last night's dream when every other year feels equally distant. Not more or less.
My life's a single day paraphrased to fit a new entry. The same rants about suicidal considerations, and the same ideas in fiction notebooks. The stories I write are monotones. Not a fucking emotional arc. How could I get a character from depression to mania when I haven't experienced that before? It's like writing about psychedelics without trying one. Like describing how the smoke felt running down your throat without smoking a cigarette.
I don't journal the material changes around me. No one does. They get into a journal when they hold emotion. You won't find a glass of water on Sunday evening inscribed in one's heart. I have no emotional change, I shall not feel shit if the world burns. Perhaps sadness if the fire doesn't touch me but my tea.
I don't remember the 5th of January and I would accuse calendars to be deceiving us, hell a government conspiracy it is, cause I don't have a journal entry of it.
Could I trust my entries? I could have miss-marked a page and I wouldn't have noticed. That 7th would be 6th forever. I was closer to suicide on 6th than 7th, I'll say but that won't matter as the day of reading would be the worst anyway.
As such my days go until my life ends in the sure known way. I drown in self-hatred every night for postponing so far.
Rick B. Buy me a pen