I'm a human being.
My insanity, as they perceived, is merely a result of years of unhealthy life. My brain lacks the chemical it needs to live a "fulfilling life". Dopamine, serotonin, those things. Funny, isn't it? You'd think the world is irreparably damaged, only achievements would bring joy and meaning to your life, but it's actually just you missing a few sessions of workout that week.
Makes you think all those things we're constantly chasing are actually real.
Ah. Anyway. Since I've been diagnosed with a... sort of disorder, I've been instructed to take meds and apply healthier lifestyle. You know, things like regular workouts, healthier meals at regular intervals, and sufficient sleeping time. I've always underestimated the whole "healthy lifestyle" thing until it finally took a toll on my *mental* health. Guess Descartes was not exactly right when he proposed the duality of body and soul, but it's probably old news.
I still wanna transcend, though.
--
For years and years I've been living in insecurity and self-loathing. I figured the only way I could live a life of "me" that I could be proud of was to "create" a new one. or two. or more.
So there's an alter ego here, and another one somewhere else. I made them up, splitting myself into two, three, and more. Little Tays, Taffys, Titanias, Carreys, Grays, whatever. I named everything. They were me. They were bits and pieces of me. The cool one, the cute one, the aspiring one, the smart one, etc. Instead of accepting myself as a person with multifaceted personality, it's easier to just manage them separately as different people.
Living the stereotypes. Cool people can't be "uncool", right? And smart people can't "make bad decisions" because they're supposed to be smart! The complexity and dynamics of human nowadays are too difficult to handle. We should just accept people as our ideas of them, not who they really are (allegedly).
Everyone's a liar anyway.
--
Violence was never the answer.
That's why, even though I was hurt, I was bleeding inside and out, I never, even ONCE dreaming of laying a hand on him. I didn't even have the heart to confront him about it. About anything, really.
I wanted to keep it beautiful.
So beautiful it was, but only in my head. It was never real.
There's a part of me that wished I could be deplorable enough to just be satisfied with the imagination of slapping the shit out of him. Literally. Palm on cheek. On head. Until he falls down. So I can kick him. Over and over. But it was never quite there. I couldn't put a face on it. Not his, anyway.
Or maybe I just have shit imagination. I don't know.
--
Were the alter ego not enough? I laid on my back, wondering. The lights were out, only glints of fluoroscent stickers reflecting outside lights above my head gave me a sense of vision. Once I was rather accustomed to it, I could sometimes tell whether it's only 11 PM or already 3 AM. There's a sense of dread, stillness, and hushed silence that just hit different after 2 AM.
Easy on the narration, girl, this is not a Murakami novel.
Alright, sorry. Where was I. I was laying on my back, reminiscing the (seemingly) good old days.
The way the conversation goes. The way he awkwardly laughs at my joke because he didn't seem to get it but he got the gist that I was joking anyway. The way his hands tucked into his pockets as he walked over to pick me up from lab.
Was any of that real or am I just being delusional again?
Sometimes I forgot whether the meds helped me clear my head so I remembered the past better or they just lured me into the thought of a sweet memory so I was spared the misery of the bitter truth.
My phone buzzed again. I laid still.
It's never going to be him anyway.
--
"What are you trying to say?" He asked puzzingly. I stayed silent. I didn't even know the answer.
"Okay, let's just... slowly back up..." He continued, "...and try to develop each of this piece one by one? See, there's potential here, and there. Almost everything. But you have to keep it coherent!"
I know. "I'll try." I nodded sheepishly, "Which one do you think I should go with, first?"
"Just pick at random." He sighed as he slumped back into his office chair, "Or follow your mood. I know mood is everything to you."
"Yes." I put down the tablet on the desk, beaming a smile at him, "Right now I'm in the mood for sushi."
"When are you ever not in the mood for sushi?" He smiled, looking tired. His eyes were almost red, and I could see sleepiness written all over his face. He was almost not paid enough for this, not that he was paid anyway.
"You know I'm kinda stumped right now..." I hesitated, "...mentally."
He went silent for a while. He grabbed his phone and started typing something up there, stopped as he glanced at me. "The usual?"
"Three hours or so."
Few more types, then he locked the device and put it down beside the tablet. "Granted."
I locked the door.
"Table or sofa?"
--
Beguile;
verb
to persuade, attract, or interest someone, sometimes in order to deceive them
Am I being deceived? Oh, the harsh reality! The falling side of falling in love! The humanity!
"You're laughing now, that's good." She chuckled, "Those days you were practically a walking corpse, girl."
"I really don't remember," I sighed, "but I hope I never have to get through that again."
"So you're really okay now?"
Am I?
"Yeah, don't worry about me."
But she will. Worry about me. Like she does.
--
Alright, alright. This is getting nowhere. I'm just doing a "pulp fiction" type of writing where I just write without thinking. The plot should write itself, it's okay for it to be trash, and whatever's written is probably anything I'm worried about.
Except there seems to be no plot, lmao.
I'm really confused now. I have all these ideas to write about, but there are like TONS and my mood doesn't seem to be supportive of starting to write any of those :/
These are the trash types of writing I should be putting on twitter or whatever, supposedly.
A-
I'll come back with better drafts.
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