Why is this okay? I run from it and it doesn't move away from me. It is not following. It does not move. Like wood wedged in flesh. Pulsating. Screaming with pain.

You don't know me very well. That's okay I don't either. The way I write and express feels so wrong and so I don't and so I don't learn how to be right. Just not wrong.

I think that I love you because you make me feel safe. Owning my body. I'm yours. And so I'm safe from myself. This isn't safety it's just not danger.

I want to be me and not attacked for it. I want to be safe from harming others too. There was a time to explore this and that has past. Now I just hold onto what I can.

There is a column I'd love to read if I weren't so young. A tiktok feed if I weren't so old. My age limits me in ways it didn't before. I can't imagine I'll ever be a mother.

You can ignore this part. There isn't any meaning I intended. Perhaps you can find some all the same. I hope not. I want you to see what I do intended. Especially if you disagree.

I don't have a lot of emotional energy here. I don't know what I'm writing or why. I just need to get through these 180 lines. It would be nice to at the very least cry.

I shield myself in esoteric meta irony that no one understands. It could me from seeing what's making the silhouette. I want to know what's there but I can't see it.

...of dying young or growing old \ without realizing the purpose of your soul.

I was told that I needed a purpose. I don't know when this was first said to me or by who. I don't think this meme is true. I make this strange narratives to make sense of this drive.

I don't think this has to be a part of me. I can just be wonderful for no reason in particular. Eventually I will die, stop experiencing anything, and dissolve. I don't want this but I have it all the same.

House of Leaves is the first book I've read that felt like it was cheering me on. It makes me face things I'd manage to avoid for so long. I think I need to continue with it's silly nonsense.

It was clever I think to disguise itself as a horror novel. The humor in it feel so intimate. I'm glad it opens with the reassurance that "This is not for you." It could be dangerous otherwise.

I think I got a brain all scrambled from caring for a parent, nonconsentually casual contact from a sibling, and broad neglect. This worsened by being trans and my first boyfriend being into rape.

A childhood of suppressing feelings for survival and a 20's of solidify that behavior, I feel stuck in myself. But house of leaves is funny and rewarding to read. Perhaps I'm not up to its challenge.

I'll try have to try not to care. Or to care. Yeah maybe that would be better. To feel the flood of stuck feelings that prevent me from particapating in the dance of life.

Well clearly I've gone pasted my line count. Thanks for listening. I feel a lot better now.