Feb 5

It is 3:21 AM.

Fake, fake, fake: this world and its ills feel fake.

Fake, fake, fake.

So fake.

Tautological.

I work so I may live, I live so I may work.

I suffer so I may love, I love so I may suffer.

I suffer so I may write, I write so I may suffer.

Please crush my brain to scattered bits, so I never need to write again.

Despair while medicated is worse than without medication. In the past I suffered meaningfully, but now I only suffer.

In fact, I think my suffering is much more dangerous to myself while medicated than otherwise. Without medication I was destroyed and bone-tired, but I felt rooted to this world. Now I only feel despair but have energy to do something with it.

I will live, though.

Irony?

Oedipus and his eyes. Reading was the worst thing I've done to myself. Also the best thing I've done to myself. Another cycle.

Cycles everywhere. The last time these cycles crushed me, I wrote Do You Want To Be Alive. I had no answer then, and I have no answer today.

Not having an answer is the answer. The silence of God. Implicitly: I don't want to be alive but I will continue to live.

There is no single me. Who I am, overall, is a random manifestation of chance, illusion, and distance.

When I am hypomanic, this world is bright and fundamentally good. When I am depressed, this world may as well have its colors bleeding from its canvas. When I am stable, then everything is bland and sucks.

All of those people are constitutively different people. Different reducers over the event log. We could reduce suffering if we understood others as collections of disparate people.

But maybe I am sick and just universalizing everything to make me feel less alone. Or, more simply, that I am 'okay.'

I am okay.

Simone Weil and her telling her parents that she was eating food, just months before her death, even though she wasn't: she probably said "I am okay."

I observe myself, and it is uncertain what "I am okay" objectively means.

It is 3:37 AM. I could be in bed right now, or drinking water, or eating a balanced meal.

Yet here I am, in another recursive cycle.

"So be it"

I remind myself constantly that if I am alive then it can always get much worse.

This is leagues above the worst I have felt.

Is that bad?

Vertical axis. I need to remind myself that it exists. I don't know if I want my suffering to be redeemed, though.

Let it burst. Let your brain burst. Let your head burst. I am typing this with my eyes closed, hopefully my typing is fine without sight, imagining my head bursting into a million fragments, a collection of cosmos flowering from each one. Red streaks here, blue streaks there. Life forming, love forming, things dying. Not dying, but transfiguring. They were here, now they were there. But a different they. Where are the roots of these flowers? How does something from nothing form? Nothing implies something exists, a relationship.

A cycle?

I want to let this earth's light shatter me.

It is 3:48 AM.

Good night.