Log ENTRY 0
(No date because this was type way before time exist)
I am tired of being picked at like a scab people pretend not to see themselves touching.
They say my name wrong on purpose. They say it softly so they can deny it later.
It is impressive how many ways a person can say nothing and still hurt you.
This morning the cereal box was watching me.
Not metaphorically.
The mascot’s eyes were too sharp, too confident, like it knew I would choose wrong anyway. Every slogan felt instructional. Every bowl looked identical. I stood there long enough for the milk to sweat.
I did not eat.
I found a sleep pill in my hand.
White. Chalky. Innocent.
I do not remember picking it up. I do not remember deciding anything. Memory lately feels like propaganda too. Selective. Edited. Approved for release.
If I already held it once, does that count as wanting it.
At the market, the cashier looked at me like I had brought something rotten to the counter and tried to pay with it. He did not say anything. He didn’t have to. Disgust has a grammar everyone understands. I stared at the conveyor belt because it kept moving even when no one told it to.
I envy that.
The friend texted me while I was there. Just a symbol. No words. Like a reminder I still exist somewhere I am not standing. I deleted it and then felt guilty, which means it worked.
Sometimes I think about ending it.
Not dramatically.
Not like the posters warn you about.
More like turning down a volume that keeps rising even when the room is empty.
I keep telling myself this is temporary. That’s another slogan. Everything is temporary until it isn’t. Flowers know that. They bloom once and die on schedule. Nobody calls them unstable for it.
I am not unstable.
I am reacting correctly to an incorrect world.
If you find this entry later and it looks messy, that’s because I was thinking faster than I could disappear
Log ENTRY 1
(no date, dates are dishonest)
They said diaries are for honesty.
That is already a problem.
I am writing this because writing is quieter than thinking. Thinking broadcasts. Writing feels like folding paper until it becomes thick enough to hide in.
If someone finds this, it was not for you.
If no one finds this, it worked.
I was chosen last week. Or earlier. I only noticed last week. My friend says “chosen” is a dramatic word but he smiles when he says it, like he approved the drama beforehand. He noticed me first. That is how it starts. Posters always show the smiling part, never the noticing.
I used to think propaganda was loud. Big fonts. Red arrows. Hands pointing forward.
Now I know it can be quiet.
Now I know it can sound like a friend saying “you should come with me.”
I came.
Today I learned about lily of the valley.
My favorite flower.
Not because it is pretty. That is a lie people tell children.
Its meaning is the return of happiness.
That’s what the books say.
But it is poisonous. Every part of it. Even the water it sits in.
I like that contradiction. Happiness that kills you if you misunderstand it. Happiness that does not care if you are careful.
I think that is the most honest promise I’ve ever heard.
Sometimes my hands shake when I copy flower diagrams. Sometimes they do not shake at all, which is worse. Stillness feels like being photographed for something official. I keep expecting a slogan to appear in the corner of my vision.
STAY CALM
YOU ARE SAFE
THIS IS NORMAL
(this is so corny but sure why not)
I, write those down sometimes so they can’t write me first.
My friend says learning about flowers will “ground” me. He says that word like it’s a switch. On. Off. I do not tell him that roots grow underground where no one can see what they’re doing. I do not tell him that plants are very good at pretending to be harmless.
If you line up enough flowers, it looks like a pattern.
If you stare too long, the pattern starts staring back.
I am not sick.
I am only sensitive to frequencies other people mute.
If this diary becomes evidence, then let it be known:
I was calm when I started.
I think.
Log ENTRY 2
This entry contains references to suicidal thoughts, emotional distress and violent ideation.
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ENTRY 3
(the numbering feels aggressive today)
They say snapping is loud. They are wrong.
It is very quiet.
It feels like finally agreeing with something.
Something inside me stopped negotiating today. The part that used to say wait and maybe and don’t. I think it resigned without notice. Now there is only pressure. Like being trapped inside a warning sign no one reads.
I remember every look now. All at once. The laughing. The pretending not to see me. The cereal box eyes. The cashier’s mouth tightening. Memory stopped being polite. It dumped everything on the floor and told me to clean it up.
I want them to feel it.
Not pain exactly.
Recognition.
I don’t feel human when I think this. I feel mechanical. Like something designed wrong but still expected to function. If I hurt them, it won’t be because I’m angry. It will be because the system finally reached its error limit.
I thought about ending it again. That thought is always nearby, like a fire exit with no sign. But today it argued back. Today it said: why only you
That scared me more than anything.
If this diary ends here, don’t romanticize it. There is nothing beautiful about pressure snapping metal. There is nothing poetic about a mind turning into a weapon against itself or others.
I am not calm anymore.
I am very clear