09/02/2025 - I might keep this one in drafts.

Hello readers,

I might keep this one in drafts. I don’t want to hold back on anything that comes out. Fuck, my belly is tense. I can’t go to the toilet. I feel bloated. My period is coming, but it’s not just that, it’s my stomach. It’s how I digest my emotions right now. And it’s strange because I’m eating way less than before. I don’t drink anymore. I don’t smoke. And still, there’s an issue.

I’m ruminating. Waiting for time to pass. I have absolutely no desire to do anything. Seriously, none. I know I have things to do, but I dread doing anything. I thought this feeling would fade after a couple of days back, but hell no. I’m lying in bed, contemplating what I should be doing, but doing nothing. Rotting.

And yet, I cleaned my room. I baked banana bread. Went to the gym twice. Currently printing a document I need for the bank. Maybe that’s the real problem. I have never been able to fully rest. Ever. I always need to be a little bit on top of my shit, or the stress and anxiety freak me out. But I don’t want to be. I want to have no thoughts, no feelings. Nothing happening inside of me.

I used to say I wanted to be a small, polished rock, soft and worn smooth on a shore. Water rolling over me, over and over, my only sensorial stimulation. And then? I found a new purpose. A temporary one, like always. A momentary occupation. A new character to become, with new passions, new people to connect to, a new life in itself. Thinking, this one is it. 

But I drift back into my habitual state. How hard am I on myself right now? Thinking I came back to a place I constantly wanted to leave, when maybe I am only revisiting it to understand it. To bring clarity. What if I am meant to constantly revisit this state of lethargy and isolation? What if the moments of happiness and bliss are ephemeral veils for a harsh truth I am trying to hide from myself?

Yes, positivity, spirituality, and tutti quanti offer paths of redemption for these thoughts. They tell me my self-judgment is an illusion. But sometimes, I am a rationalist, a pessimistic rat. And I love this part of myself. The one that deciphers and tortures herself.

Isn’t that a thing? The tortured artist. Victim of his own making. Blaming the world, society itself, for their misunderstanding of what being means. Or what living needs to be. It is easy to fall back into the abyss of a darkness that has always existed within me. I have tried to climb the walls of this well too many times. I have even touched the light from the eyes.

But this? This is my edge. This is another part of me. The deceiver. The secret master of puppets. The nonchalant poet. Words dance when he speaks. He, being the archetype in charge right now. Maybe my animus. Maybe something else. A man losing himself to the brain that ended up possessing him.

I see him writing by a rain-soaked window, ink-stained fingers, the smell of cold cigarette smoke soaked deep into the air. He is a mess, but a brilliant one. He sees the world through his own experiences and defines truth as he pleases. Eloquent, competent, assertive. His words manipulate. He longs for understanding while despising anyone who would dare trying. Judging different perspectives as a vile example of his superiority.

He exudes charisma, juggling with people's emotions while refraining from feeling any. He loves women, feeds off them. They are his muses. His feast. What a pity. They just happen to be useful in his insatiable quest for recognition. He does not love. He absorbs. Every glance, every sigh, every surrendered moment; a mirror for his own brilliance. Yet, in the quiet, when there is no one left to reflect him back to himself, what is he then?

I revoke him. Blame him for actions that led me to guilt. Why does he live inside of me?

And how am I not feeling insane trying to explain something I don’t even understand myself? I see flashes of images, fragments of sensations when I describe him. It doesn’t make sense. But this is how I experience the world. Through the lens of a spectrum I have yet to decode.

It would be easy to call it madness, to name it as something clinical, to place it into neat categories of the mind. Schizophrenia, dissociation, delusion; the world loves a label for what it does not understand. But I do not fear being named. I refuse to let the fear of being misinterpreted keep me from exploring the labyrinth of my own psyche. If I fracture, it is only so I can see from every possible angle. If I hear echoes within me, it is only because I have dared to listen.

And so, I write.

Because maybe, in these words, in these patterns, in this dance of the deceiver and the dreamer, I will finally understand.

Or maybe, I never will.

With truth, Louna.