I’m letting myself slip again, letting much too much time pass between these little confessions. I was trying to go to sleep, as this raging headache abates, and I probably would have succeeded if the phone did not ring, pushing my sweet subconscious thoughts to the foreground.

(On a little tangent, I’ve been feeling as if I have damaged [my long-term memory systems]—not completely, because I can still dream—or maybe having vivid dreams is a sign? I guess I need to wait until neuro—but I notice my long-term recall is not too hot—maybe I just have a poor organizer module)—though my short-term memory is not so short-term—probably compensation. Or maybe it’s the other way around? I don’t know why I bother talking about this shit without understanding fully… all I know is that I’m awesome at recalling random completely decontextualized chunks of memory but terrible at details, or the way things are arranged, or the way things are labeled. Poor associations, maybe? How do I work on this?) But back to the main story: so I am imagining this scenario (in third person. Maybe [I’m just a little crazy]…) Wait, let’s backtrack, first, some background.

So next year I will probably have no friends here, as I don’t regularly associate with M1s, and at times like this, I actually don’t mind the isolation so much. Then it got me thinking how one dimensional I am when talking to people here, except for those I’ve managed to get to know. I mean, seriously. I find myself talking about the weather too often for what seems healthy.

Fuzzy, fuzzy. OK, this is the next thing I thought about: I really don’t know right from wrong until the moment of decision strkes, and then I’m as often wrong as right. It’s like I only really have two guides: the which was taught to me, and that which I feel, and deep down I know they are horribly unreliable. If I go with what I’ve learned, then life is just continuous suffering, and only duty matters, and everything war and alive just gets trampled, and I find I’ve been contemplating cold grey stone, the tang of metal in the air, black heavy ball sitting inside of me where my soul used to be, and this is pretty much death or maybe even hell, and I wonder to myself, am I broken already? Are the cracks too deep that I can’t possibly put myself together to attain some semblance of happiness, and all I’m waiting for is a spectacular exit? Is suffering truly easier to bear if you begin to imagine it as perpetual—that it possibly can’t get any better? All it’s taught me is that happiness is not mine to have. Doesn’t look like I’ll even draw a face card, much less match a pair. I mean, I’ve been really trying to accept my inner emptiness, but I find that I sitll realize my situation is bad and is likely to be worse, and while I can deal with the bad part for now, I wonder when the deepening despair will finally drive me to kill myself. Then I begin to wonder if I’m the only one in that shithole, and I’m not so sure it would make [me] feel any better (and probably would make me feel worse) if I found out this was normal.

If I ever was in touch with my social side (which is at least half of being human, and sometimes I think I never really waws, but then I remember N and B but then still wonder) I am definitely losing it now. If I thought I was lonely then, then it’s much worse now, and right now I realize that I really am dying (yes, I now we’re all dying, but I think this is faster [than baseline], and I wonder how much time I have left until I finally shatter, and the sickest part of me just perked up like a child on Christmas, looking forward to [my shattering], and the most pessimistic parts of me hope that at last it will be final, if I do shatter, at least that will be the end of it.

You see I’ve given this side a lot of thought. The other side is better on the surface. If I just follow my heart, then at least I can enjoy myself at least a little more than this. But I am fearfully afraid, and if it doesn’t work out, then I am definitely worse off, and I will have generations of ghosts hounding me for betraying them. See, I realize the fear isn’t that this path is wrong, it’s that I’ll fail. At last, I’m honest enough to acknowledge that following my heart is the higher-maintenance of the two [options], fraught with greater peril. If I [were] just a tad younger and a little less broken, then it would be easy. Or if I were smarter and wiser and able to deal with the world without my mother holding my hand.

Where does this go? Well, here’s the trap. I realize why I can’t make friends anymore. If duty guides me, well, duty says I can’t afford to have friends. I mean, I don’t really believe in the Randian paranoia that everyone is out to pull you down. I do somewhat tenuously believe that I knind of don’t have the right to pull anyone else down with me into this abyss, though. The loneliness of [honor], maybe. And other some such bullshit.

Here’s the fun part though: if I just follow my heart, I’m liable to make a fool of myself or worse. The memory of [my past experiences] have left scars on my heart—at least, they’re scars now, but [in at least one case], I still think about and wonder “what if?” to my infinite dismay, but we’ll get to that later.

Or sooner.