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My day job keeps me engaged five days a week. The remaining two days are the days I take a break. I feel relief when I go out, and heavy when I return. I wish to change and transform on every occasion, but the rigidity of reality doesn't allow any bend or twist toward a desired direction. It just stands stiff day and night, summer and winter, season after season. I fall asleep on the bus returning from a night shift, and I type this in my sleepy state: ìiiiìììiìiìiiììiìi⁵is ùùùuùuuuùùùùù45⁵⁵⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹999⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹9⁹9⁹9⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹⁹9⁹99

I started writing because I love to challenge myself, and I kept writing because the events in my life are otherworldly miserable, and nonstop. My response to nonstop misery is nonstop writing. The darker it gets, the uglier my words get this is the only coping mechanism I have for this world called life. The opposite of a bad day is equivalent bad words, not a happy day. Things like happiness are better relegated to movies and dreams. The reality is something else.

I don't know if I'll keep writing once — if — reality changes. What would I write then? Where would the inspiration come from? Will I sit down and create something out of nothing? I don't know. But one thing I'm certain of: I'm going to write for a little while. The time isn't specified. Maybe I'll stop writing one day, or maybe I'll keep finding words that fit the weight of my pain.

I don't even want to sleep, because I know I'll wake up in the same place as before, the same job, the same people. I just want to extend today a little bit and see tomorrow from the distance and different angle.

Today was a battle. I gained some and lost some, but I fought hard not to let people down. My mind drags me one way and I drag myself the other direction. It feels like manual labor. When I got exhausted, it scored on me, and I got up off the ground and gained some points back until it came and attacked me from another direction, once again.

I try to keep my conflicts inside as much as I can. The more I hide the battle within, the better I look, and the more appealing and fun I seem. But the moment the volcano erupts, people start to escape from me — because that's human nature, and I can do nothing except witness the tragedy in shock.

I consider myself an earth's crust. People built homes and families on me. They put their trust in me, and I put my trust in them. But out of the blue, I swallow everything without warning. Why did I do this to them? Were we bad for each other? No why did I hurt those glorious souls? What did they do to me, that they'd be displaced and erased from their land? Simply nothing. It's not their fault, and it's not my intention either. I just want them to know it was never my intention to hurt anyone. It's simply the result of a collision between two tectonic plates, deep inside the earth. If they had been in a different location, they would have had a different experience.

Your imagination allows you to imagine eyes closed or open, it doesn't matter. You can live wherever and however you want in that imaginary utopia. But the moment you're conscious, awake from the slumber, the hallucination vanishes like mist exposed to sun.

I want to show everybody the absolute limits of humanity. I want to walk exactly on the edge of those limits and make people doubt if the boundaries even exist at all.

I do not want to rest. I have already wasted too much time, and I have to make up for every second lost. I have wasted an enormous amount of time trapped inside the confines of my own head, and I no longer accept that paralysis. I just want something different—something kinetic and real.

Some of my problems became part of me, indistinguishable from myself. They became me, and I became them. We are tangled together intricately, forced to live side by side, each of us seeing the other differently. So we drag each other apart in opposite directions. The tension between those forces is immense — it feels like it's tearing me in two.

You know, there's a feeling that I will never be free again. I don't think I can unknow what I know now. I don't think I can empty my head of the horrors it holds. I don't think I can unlearn everything I've learned these years, since I first became aware of this universe. I don't think I can ever have a relationship again. A respect. An identity. A courage. A peace. A freedom. Not in this life.

Let's close eyes and try if something take me somewhere else different, the probability to some kind of miracle happens and live differently is close to zero, the probability me to have the worst time of my life is like 100 percent not 99, that's the only thing I'm certain in my entire life in this violent universe,

What am I gonna do with this life, I have done nothing so far. Something is settled and living on behalf of me, and it's wild and untamed. It doesn't feel right though, not having control over the self you think is yours — everybody around thinks the same thing, but you know from inside that you did own a goddamn structure called self. It runs independently, it doesn't obey or mold into a certain shape, it gives a bad look and impression for its own creator.

On the other side there's a soul watching all the mess from the side, who wants to do things differently, but the connection between my soul and body is cut somewhere — in regard to that, both operate independently while they were designed to be harmonized and operate as a single entity. My soul doesn't have the eyes to see, and legs to walk, and my body doesn't have the guidance and navigation to the journey, it only has cravings for something different, and otherworldly.