Does anyone else feel like their memories aren't really their memories? Like they're for sure memories, but I would not fucking say/do that. What ghost possessed me and made me do Thatā¢ļø?
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Does anyone else feel like their memories aren't really their memories? Like they're for sure memories, but I would not fucking say/do that. What ghost possessed me and made me do Thatā¢ļø?

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hello! i've had this account for five years and never quite knew what to do with it.
i'm still getting used to publicizing my writing, my hobby that has never stopped beating, that's gotten me through pain and professionalism and everything in between. i've gained friends and lost friends through this powerful little thing that i have a degree in. i have a substack. a play. a novel that will never see the light of day.
please feel free to join me on this ride.
she/her
the djinn in the nightingaleās eye
You can leave your porch light on, and I will trudge through the snow and I will think about what itās like to know what you know.
To be grown up and made up.
So big and so small.
In a world full of others just like you, all perfectly made up.
Play acting at life just like everyone else.
But in your warm kitchen I imagine you have your lives down perfectly-even though I know thatās not true.
Itās all just missed staged directions and fumbled lines, passed off as ad-libbed acts of genius.
I know itās all made up. All so perfectly made up in all of our collective consciences.
But we are not like the kids who know itās all for show.
We say our lines over and over in the mirror and when we cross the street and we swallow them whole.
Until we know theyāre real.
Is the porch light real? Is the snow real?
Sometimes if I stand very still and think about nothing but my feet on the ground I can be real, but most of the time I am made up.
I question if the summer was real because the air is just too cold now.
The kitchen table and the alcohol- sitting across from it from boys with dark eyes who only know me as I carefully made myself up.
But my laugh was real and unrehearsed.
My thoughts came right out of my mouth.
I spoke about imporant nonsensical made up things and made my friends smile very real smiles.
A shiny gold real in a landfill of made up.
Almost everything will be made up forever until we die and alone-everything will be real.
As we die our children-even if weāve had none will begin to wonder about porch lights and snow- they will be begin to wonder if they can ever really know.
No one has ever really known how or why or who or what is made up to you and everyone else because we are all making everything up all the time and none of it is true.
i just dont get why we travel. why am i paying a tremendous amount of money to go to a place and spend there way more money and walk so much my legs hurt and then i go back home and give myself some imaginary life points ofĀ āiāve been thereā that actually means nothing, like my body being there had absolutely no impact on my life i just was there yet i know i will go places again

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dirk, right now:
200417 - ON TRAUMA
I didnāt ask for this.
Who could ever want this?
This is a tightened chest, a hardened heart. This is a skittering gaze and a fighting stance. This is 24/7 fight or flight. This is trauma at first.
This does not go away.
Because itās been almost a year since Iāve thought of it with any sincerity. Itās been several months since the incident that had me pulled from my bed at two in the morning. I think I shouldnāt be affected at this point.
Thatās the thing with trauma. It doesnāt go away.
Images stick. Sounds echo. Memories repeat.
I see red sports cars and feel my heart clench in anxiety. I hear footsteps in the hall, a knock at my door, and Iām filled with dread. I am afraid to let people know who I am.
My traumaāIāve only recently learned to call it suchāisnāt life ending. In the grand scheme of the world and all the problems that exist in it, my trauma is insignificant.
But in the world which is my life, my trauma has impact. And I know I will not die from my trauma and I know that I have to believe I can beat it in order to beat it, but I will not diminish the impact it has had on my life.
I am scarred.
I think all of us are scarred in our own way.
I think thatās okay.
(I have always had scars, physical and emotional. I have been prone to scars since birth. Take it from someone who knows: itās okay to have scars, no matter the shape they take)
Scars are old wounds healed over. Scars are struggles and traumas that have impacted us, but have faded with time.
Scars are permanent; scars can fade.
There will always be a mark, I will always know itās there, but it will fade until I cannot see it.
It will take years for my trauma to fade into the lightness of the scar you only see when you look for it. It will take years for me to stop turning at every red sports car, stop panicking at every knock on my door. But it will fade.
I have to believe it will fade, I have to hope.
What else do we have to keep us going than hope?