Why My Journal Should Have a Lock

All actual journal entries from someone proven clinically insane.

Cleaned out my bathtub at three am and filled it all the way to the top because I needed to pull my head under something and I wanted the ocean water but I live by the grass. Crazy that I only crave the ocean when I’m not near it and when I see a tree, suddenly sitting under it seems less appealing. Even though that’d make all the difference for me. Man, the itchiness of it all. The inescapable claustrophobia that is the mind. The most limitless thing. The most confined.

-.-

Sometimes I think I can’t breathe.

And I haven’t been able to breathe in a very long time.

So when I walk around, I stay very silent.

And when I’m not, I sit very still. I make no noise.

I just try to keep my air. Maintain the wind. Maintain what I have.

Because I’m not sure I’ll receive anything else.

And I’m honestly not sure I’ll ever hold another person again. I don’t think I can. I don’t know that I’ll ever know how.

How do you receive something you aren’t ready for? How do you hold something that isn’t yours? How do I rid myself of a predisposition to hold my imagination? To try and live in my dreams?

-.-

I can’t remember.

It feels like I can’t hold stuff in my hands for longer than a minute before they start to slip through my fingers. It feels like the good moments are too fleeting, the bad ones too stagnant, and me too tolerant.

I’m afraid I’m a bad person.

-.-

I’ve been tasting life like a glutton.

I know that when I die I’ll be able to taste it on my tongue, even if I try to brush my teeth of it with holy water.

I’ve been eating life alive like a glutton.

I’ve taken the heart of the thing and bitten into it and now all of life’s glory is spilling down my face while I eat it alive.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

All I’ve ever wanted to do with my life is eat life itself alive.

Take it for all it’s got, because it’s all I got.

And I think that’s fair.

Do you?

-.-

I’ve always had this hatred for open caskets. For wakes. There’s something strangely unsettling about it all. Staring at a persons flesh without their soul is the barest form, and people who they barely know are doing it without their permission. I wonder if that’s what you see when you look at me in my purest form. An open casket. When you look at someone who’s gone and get that sudden realization that they’re never going to laugh, smile, or experience ever again. Is that what you see when you look at me and I stop smiling? Is that why you look so sad? Are you grieving my smile? I get afraid sometimes that that’s all I am to people anymore. But I guess I wouldn’t mind if I died and I was remembered for all thirty-two.

-.-

Deja-vu is the eternal reoccurrence in a fur coat and obnoxious sunglasses.

-.-

Is the difference between the drive-thru and the walk-in an undeniable craving for human connection?

-.-

One day I’ll write about the Sun.