ichabod

It was a dystopia, and from the length I had read of it: purely for the point of being edgy.

It didn't offer anything that hadn't been said before, and any commentary you could draw out of it had been beaten to death by more prolific books.

That made me so angry—for no justified reason.

It was a book with an audience.

The reason I was upset was because she had done what I was trying to do: with less than half the time invested.

Sometimes, I think about scrapping all my major projects and just crapping out a YA romantica.

Goodbye to years of world development and writing—just start anew with something I'm not passionate about at all.

Maybe write a mute-point dystopia with a bad name.

I jumped at a shadow, and suddenly the flush of arousal snared me like a rabbit trap.

It's always that way, whether roller-coaster or sudden gunfire: my retort is always sexual arousal: it concerns me often.

My most vivid nightmares prey on it: I fond it difficult to explain. A euphoric thrill with the chokehold of terror lurking just barely underneath it, or, sometimes, the feeling of arousal that's pinned beneath the immovable feeling of dread.

I cannot decide whether or not it's good, but I do know I don't process fear or anxiety as I ought. I believe I've conditioned myself from a young age to associate fear with sex.

I am better than when I was young: my hypersexualization greatly reduced after years of psychological guidance. Though, the emotional numbing: nit so much.

I usually rely on chemical crutches to experience emotions in any capacity: usually tryptamines to force myself to feel things that aren't aggression or doubt, with the side effects being nearly manic outbursts.

I do think my emotional trouble is the root of my "governed by lust and fear" idea, as when there is nothing else present, those primitive feelings are unshakable.

There's of course more to that, but, who's listening, right?

I often wonder if my perceived emotion is just a placebo, something I've acted out so many times it has become some semblance of real:

It would explain why my emotional numbing is undetectable by most, save foreign scenarios: like grief.

I don't believe I can even feel grief, to be entirely honest.

I grieved Claire because I hated myself for not upholding a promise I'd made to her.

I have not grieved the death of anyone else.

Maybe just a side effect of my emotional detachment? I wouldn't know. I'm not a doctor.

My only motivation in becoming one was always to understand myself and others in the desperate hope that I might achieve some semblance of normalcy.

Though— "normal" isn't something that I think exists, and if it does, I don't qualify in the slightest.

Not in terms of "haha I'm quirky" but rather, I just know that I don't share common experiences with others.

I can only seem to develop superficial relationships with others, just far enough to know, but not understand.

Blood is blood, old or young.

It looks the same when it washes away, it looks the same with it's dark red outline when it dries.

It looks the same spattered.

It looks the same smeared.

Blood behaves as rigidly as bones: sometimes pink, sometimes yellow, always pale. Sometimes brown, sometimes yellow, always red.

People know me at an arm's length, the feel closer to me than they really are. They find that I'm open, that I haphazardly let experiences slip from my lips that I'm being brave, sharing things that ought be hard to share.

The truth is, those things are the easiest to share.

The worst of it, I still keep behind closed doors. Not because I fear it but—because I abhor being seen as a wounded animal.

I despise pity.

I don't want to wedge others' authenticity by telling them about my wounds and scars. I'm an ultimately selfish creature.

I don't want to prey upon others' empathy, but I want to explain why it is the way I am: and I can seldom find a perfect median.

I can't describe the feeling as anything but thrashing.

It's painless, yet, compressive.

I can't think when it starts thrashing, all I can feel is it's want. It's a violent feeling that rips the seams of my mind.

A lightheaded feeling that plugs my ears and rattles my mind--like my rationality short circuits and all that wants to talk is the silence. It's loud, the silence. It chatters, the silence.

It makes me stutter and pause-- it swallows my thoughts and reason. It's desperate for me to follow. It isn't sound like the other.

It flails about like an animal, self-fulfilling and thoughtless.

The only way to exonerate it from my mind it to coo at it, it quells when it hears stories. So, I tell it stories. Many true, many untrue.

It loves stories that reminds it of itself the most.

For those stories it silences entirely.