incomprehensible @wreb - Tumblr Blog

moving to @wrecursion but idk how to stop the queue so it's still running

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while C slept, i found an old diary of theirs on the floor. i started to read it. they wouldn’t mind. most of it was drawings, but some of it was journaling. the journaling did the same terrible thing to me that keeps happening to me over & over

in it, i find a certain manner of instinctively ordering one’s lived experience into a coherent picture & holding an instinctive sense of living in that picture. this sense of withinness serves as prerequisite to feeling anything at all about what one is living through

C is not unique in this respect. it seems to be the default. if the quality is notable in their writing, it is only on the basis of being in service of their particular personhood which is one that is constituted so beautifully. but this is beside the point

it reminds me of the way i seem to differ from this manner of experiencing things. the nearer i draw to life, the more it begins to remind me of this difference, ceaselessly, from all directions. it never stops hurting to feel it over & over & over from all directions

it feels like the most important particular thing inside the most intimate core of my being got grabbed & torn out & it’s so horrible on a level beyond any other category of occurrence i can imagine that i can’t even scream or fall to the ground or react or do anything or ever be sure ever again that i can actually feel my own presence. it feels like the first lesson i was ever taught was that life is a life & i can’t get that lesson out of me & it turned me into a ghost & i can’t remember any time that i ever wasn’t a ghost

i don’t have apt words for it. it’s something i recognize in my heart. i know that by even trying to write it out i create a misrepresentation of it. that makes me feel alone with it. i feel like i could not possibly feel more alone. i do not feel like there is anyone who could possibly join me in this room nor anything they could say that would draw me back out of something that feels infinitely recessed & deep & far away

i can’t explain it. it’s not that something explainably bad happened to me that made it so i’m sad all the time & just moping about that. it feels like something was taken away from me that runs deeper than any emotion or any paltry expectation or judgment i could impose on the way i am treated by life or my own mind

it feels like the existential platform atop which one might feel bad about other things collapsed under my feet & the only thing i have ever known myself to be able to receive from life is an absence of feeling so deep that one could question if it is even apt to define it in contrast to feeling

you’re not reading some unique emotional crisis or thought spiral right now. every redeeming aspect of human life & coexistence seems to carry a major risk of sending me into this same place, over & over & over & it feels just as terrible every time. i could be writing something to this effect every day. i have in fact been writing things to this effect nearly every day. i don’t know what to do. the only thing that feels survivable are hyperspecific limited conditions where life is stripped down enough to something so bare that nothing will interfere in carefully & gently building the delusion that i might feel at peace or at home in reality

i have come to regard suicidality as a personality trait, a thing which does not ever go away but only assumes more or less relevance to any given situation. i feel like suicidality is mostly just a manifestation of impatience. i already feel like a ghost & it hurts in a way i can’t describe & i want to just cut to the chase & literalize my death instead of feeling it as a drawn-out moaning screaming process