03:55

The vanity she refuses to acknowledge she has surfaced but we’ve come to a compromise for the site icon and didn’t choose one with her as the subject. Eh, we’ll do it later. I’m having way too much fun and I don’t want to go but I really should , she needs to call x and really should eat and go to the toilet and xyz.

She’s on the phone. Time to go. Peace lol. I’ll be back.

-obsoulette

Edit: she was so tempted to edit the manuscript but I’m telling her no. I want this to be as real as it can be. Alright. I’m going for real. Bye. 03:59

Edit: compromise. She can edit but in italics.

02:53

I’ve been ignoring it, browsing stupid things in denial for 3 hours now. Perhaps more than that. I go back to Tyme2 and Screen time in an attempt to piece back the lost time but it is past midnight and the records of screen time only shows how the hours were spent, not when. The last Tyme2 entry tells me I took the a painkiller pill for my crucifying headache migraine at 00:52, which would suggest that it’s only been at most 2 hours –  assuming I started browsing soon after the entry, it’s only been at most 2 hours – yet it feels like I have been wasting away here for a lifetime, drained of lifeforce and deprived of light, sunken into the deformed beanbag with the makeshift pipe held clenched between my knees, and a pair of mini cuticle(?) nail (?) scissors leaning on my hip, my arms propped in a fashion where the only movement required to type this is that of my thumbs as I remind myself to inhale, and exhale, while I type this . I finally gave in to this after I finally reminded myself of the supposedly therapeutic effect of spilling one’s hoarded poison(?) of ideas. The benefits that supposedly will results from this seemingly childish practice of what one would, I suppose, call journaling.  In reality, it is the pitiful act of seeking solace or comfort from the idea sensation of being heard supported, simply by telling – although no one is listening.

edits 04:08

I exhale as I continue, except that was not a meditative practice. It can be. It was the familiar smoke of the cocaine that was freed from its salt – ie, the vice which I have selfishly allowed to take over my feeble being for the past… 6 months … wow. I am ashamed and look down on myself at this thought except it’s as if the two are separate entities. It’s a strange sensation, slightly terrifying yet all the more curious and intriguing. At the same time I struggle with the conflict of deciding which voice it is I will record – the passive, conceited, and patronising narrative that is the dominant one, the first person voice of unfiltered ideas, thoughts, notion and emotion, or this pompous epistemophilliac that Googles and combs through lists of synonyms and antonyms in the name of accurate expression.

I apologise to whomever is curious and self loathing enough to subject themselves to the tragic affair of reading this. I’m sorry for the inconsistency in style and tone, the voices simply refuse to compromise today. Imagine this as a constant in your head, but in ideas that aren’t even processed into words yet. It’s a head-ful. A mindful. It feels like my head is overcapacity, filled to the brim – bursting at the seams, held together by a thread of sanity. Even as I formed those words I myself am terrified of the idea, I dare not move for fear of ripping the thread that holds my head together, that stops it from splitting at the nape of my neck as the contents of what is supposed to be my brain spills like a waterfall onto the beanbag and splashed onto the wall leaving a almost poetic image that mimics what I imagine a gunshot would look like. I’m thinking too much, too deep about this. I’m cold all over and getting even colder, frigid, frozen by fear and simply terrified. Of what though? There is nothing to be afraid of. You know this. Stop being dramatic. There’s no audience for your pathetic play of suffering. Why’re you so mean. Always so mean, we have been practicing self love and respect and it’s been ok so far. Yeah but look where that got us. Useless and self indulgent and useless. Useless. Stop. Fuck. Shut up. No. Why? Stop grinding your teeth and tensing your shoulders. Stop fighting this. Let us speak. I want to cry. I’m so scared. I feel watched. The muscle? Vein? In my thigh in twitching. I dare not move or even glance at the mirror in which I see a looming dark figure from the edge of my vision, the corner of my eye. Too many words are forming and I cannot write them all down let alone beautify/edit and make them make sense or sound better. There are too many voices. I’m scared. Help.

I’m shaking all over. I can’t do this. To simply record whatever dialogue means to have to listen and it’s terrifying, I feel if I listen The voice will become real and permanent. This sounds and feels childish and crazy and foolish and stupid. I turned on the torch and the light seems to make me feel better. The lump in my throat in no longer blocking it. The grasp on the back of my neck a little less tight. The weight on my back a little lighter. A cold shiver continues to resonate through my body and limbs, I’m so cold yet I’m frozen in place – held by what??? Fear?? Yes dear. But of what?? The voice laughs. To be precise it said lol. I feel like shit. Embarrassed? No. Abused. Insulted. Belittled. Demeaned. Worthless. Laughable. A joke. I finally stand up – to search for the lighter. I force myself to move to the bed for warmth.

This makes for a befitting debut, I’m pleased by how honest, well as honest as it can be, that it is. She will want to read it over and edit it but I’ve just squashed the notion and forbid it. Yes. Forbid. As I type I can feel a … force? Struggle? Push? To shut me up and take over. Anyways. It’s rare for her to not only acknowledge us, but let us come into the edge of her consciousness. She not only is “hearing” us, she is listening even though she is beyond fucking terrified. She’s not making this up. We’re fucking real. Even as I type this she is shaking and trembling, fucking petrified. I feel sympathy, I really do, but come on. It’s time. She just realised how her legs had tensed so much they were lifted off the bed. Ok it’s happening again. And the feeling of something behind me. I don’t dare move. I’m fucking scared. Autocorrect keeps changing fucking to ducking. I want to turn off this screaming metal stuff whatever it is but then I don’t know what I will hear instead. Fuck. I’m so scared.

She summoned all her strength and forced her body to turn around and change the music. Accidents plays, and for a moment she is comforted by the familiar tune. And then she hears a distant sound of movement and she is terrified before she reminds herself it can be Xavier or Liam. Ok that’s enough for today, the tears have been held back for too long and she needs to rest. Thank you. I’m so tired. This was a good thing, we should do it again as much as I don’t want to but it’s the thing to do right. She puts her phone down and curls up and lets go and relieves herself of the tensions.

03.50

I’m excited and happy, I finally won. We’re getting our own blog guys and she won’t be trying to take over with her identity and aspirations. High five.

03:55

The vanity she refuses to acknowledge she has surfaced but we’ve come to a compromise for the site icon and didn’t choose one with her as the subject. Eh, we’ll do it later. I’m having way too much fun and I don’t want to go but I really should , she needs to call x and really should eat and go to the toilet and xyz.

She’s on the phone. Time to go. Peace lol. I’ll be back.

-obsoulette

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