For some reason, I have been meaning to write. I have been lonely, which is not new, but maybe lonelier because now my only escapism is taking multiple depressive naps while the rest of the house seems to hustle and bustle with usual normalcy; I have been meaning to finish a specific task by the end of the weekend, which is now, but now that my screen-time-use-induced headaches are getting worse, I need multiple breaks, and when that thought becomes unbearable, I sleep instead. I slept a lot, considering how nervous I am. Inside, I am constantly screaming.

The good news is, I have been trying to read. Manga, as always, but also books with only words. Safe to say, I have fully embraced my book-hoarding mechanism as a way to cope with life, and depression, and feeling like I am a failure 24/7. I have made collages out of the book covers I have acquired; my phone wallpapers are now of them, and I am positively excited for something, at least. I can now add "beautiful book covers" as one of the reasons to stay alive, for now. 

I know, what gorgeousness. I am swooning. Also, believe me, there are more. I am reading The Deep now, by the way, which has the cover of something out of a very atmospheric webtoon/comics/manga, whatever. I am just loving that graphic. I also enjoy its very visceral, sensory-related descriptions regarding movements and motions, and since it is set underwater it is all the more magnifying, the effect. 

I have also been reading manga, as I have said, and found a scene that describes my feeling:

This is from the manga Saraba, Yoki Hi which is unsettling, moody, and very, very beautiful. I have a lot of thoughts but not enough words in my throat to want to elaborate about it, but it is very, very engaging. I also, randomly, started reading another book, which is called We Are The Ants, and I have screenshot a few lines I highlighted, because I am in my angst phase once again:

It is, dare I say, a very strange book, but maybe in a lot of ways that are in good effect because it makes me keep thinking about it. The whole, brief time I made in the afternoon to read it felt like a fever dream; probably like how the whole week has been for me. 

I keep having nausea and migraines, and I have taken so many pills and eat so little as of late that I am amazed that I can still stand, walk, and use my hands. I feel like disappearing. On most of these nights, I do not sleep and instead cry, curse-crying that I could not physically make myself rip my lips and have bruises on myself, because I do not wish to inflict harm, and I do not wish to feel even sicker than I already am; but why is it so lonely? I have been here before, a number of times. I have been here and stayed. What is it about now that is making this especially hard?

There is a specific type of loneliness that these past few days have been making me feel. I stay up until dawn, or past 7 AM, without anyone knowing, eyes hurt from being blared by the laptop screen for hours. Waking up at 12 PM, I would go to the kitchen and see no one, and there is this sense that I can easily allow myself to starve, to make myself unfazed by the human hunger. There is a specific feeling where I realize I can go on hours making myself sleep, eat, and drink less, and still, when someone look at me in the eye, they would not sense my dread, my fatigue, my cry for help. There is this feeling where when it is nightfall, and everyone is getting ready to unwind, and I am just getting started and thirsty, so I go to the refrigerator and pour myself a drink, in that specific time, and darkness, and coldness, I feel how easy it is to abandon me, my body, my soul. I feel it in my bones, how if I could just go over about it, I could make myself freeze, die, copper in my tongue, because even I am sick of being here, being in the loophole of feelings I cannot even begin to get over with. I am not even exaggerating when I say that as of now, I am only alive because of book covers and manga. 

I cannot even begin to say that every time I open my mouth I feel like crying; now, all I am is silent, roaring tears.

But I also have this voice, saying: nothing, nothing, nothing. 

I know there is a very particular task-related stress I am having at the moment, which is not helping this situation given my tendency, and if I get that done I will be a lot, lot better, and I know it, I know I will be fine, but I also want people to know I am not fine, at the moment, and let me allow myself to be affected by this. I have not had these dark thoughts in years, when I was in high school and felt life was pointless. I still feel everything is pointless, but instead of that I get this underlying doom, panic, sensation that I am beyond fixing, that what I am now is a result of all the years I have ignored myself, and that I cannot undo this negativity, this hopeless crook in my heart. That what I am is nothing but a skin and hollow goosebumps. 

I am hearing the morning prayer call already. It is dawn. I am going to shower, probably, and change clothes, and charge my laptop, and eat breakfast. I am going to have to play the game: do the routine and be normal. It is easy, so easy I wish it was not like this. I wish I had anyone, any breathing being, telling me that it is so jarringly scary I appear as normal as I am, because I feel like a wreck. I do not know what is exactly keeping me so normal, collected, and scarily silent. I wish I can scar myself with loudness. I wish anyone can hear this, and recognize this ugliness, so that I can, for once, stop feeling dissonant from the world.

But I am going to eat breakfast, something I have not done in days. That should be fun. I am going to have this work, task, whatever, done soon. I have been saying that to myself a lot. Soon. I want to get over it soon, but also this ugliness draped in me, this strange being that has emptied me. Soon. 

Ciao. It has been a long post. I said already I was itching to write. That being said, happy Monday. Let's try to be well this time around, too.