[Log-3: Life]
I think I've said everything I wanted to in the last two logs, so I figured I'd talk about my life. Day-to-day stuff. Nothing special. Nothing haunting or surreal. Just life—or whatever this version of it is.
It's summer. But honestly, it feels like every day is the same. I wake up somewhere between noon and 1 p.m., grab my phone, scroll through YouTube. Sometimes I text people. Most of the time, I ignore them. I'll maybe eat something, maybe not. Watch TV until late into the night. Stay up until 3, 4, sometimes 5 a.m., then either crash from mental exhaustion or just stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up. Then I do it all over again.
Sometimes I work out. Sometimes I don't. Today, I didn't. I wanted to focus on these logs. Might do something tomorrow if I feel like it. Working out's one of the few things that makes me feel like I have control over anything. The rest of my day slips through my fingers like sand.
Right now, it's July 14th. I'm sitting on my bed, typing this on my laptop. My phone's playing music—"cardigan" by Taylor Swift. Not really my usual taste, but it fits the mood. Feels like someone whispering into your ear from a memory that never belonged to you.
The room's glowing under the pale ceiling light. It hums quietly, just loud enough to remind me I'm awake. The TV is off but still reflecting the dull light of the room. My desk sits right next to my bed, where I usually do everything—typing, gaming, zoning out. But tonight, I wanted to lay down. Just melt into the sheets and let my thoughts leak out through my fingers.
Whenever I don't know what to say, I just start typing. The words figure themselves out. I try to write what I feel, but feelings are slippery. They don't always translate. Sometimes it feels like I'm trying to translate a scream through a dial tone.
Originally, I didn't want these logs to be this personal. I got the idea from a creepypasta. Stuff like "My Roommate is Slender Man," "I Work at the Paranormal FBI," "The Threshold of Evil." But my favorite? "Borrasca" and its sequel. That one hit different. The helplessness, the trauma, the spiraling. The way the MC became a shell of himself just trying to cope. He turned to drugs just to breathe. And you know what? I get it. I really get it.
Distractions are survival mechanisms. Some people use religion. Others use art. I use stories and music and silence. Anything that drowns out the screaming static in my skull.
I've done drugs before. Edibles. Three of them. 500mg each. It was on the last day of a school trip. That high made me feel something close to freedom. Close to peace. Like the weight pressing on my chest finally lifted. For a few hours, I was okay. And then it all came crashing back down.
A friend from school—Derrion—keeps calling me. I don't answer. I don't want to talk to anyone from that place. Too many memories tied to hallways and stares and whispered lies. Too many people who decided what I was before I even had a chance to speak.
I got accused of sending some photo I didn't send. An inappropriate pic. Cops got involved. They found nothing. Cleared me. But the rumors never died. They stuck like tar. People still talk. Still look at me sideways.
I hate that school. I hate the people in it. I hate that I'm chained to it. I hate this city. I hate this state. Sometimes, I hate this body. This mind. This existence. And I don't even know why.
Why are we here? Why do we suffer? Why do some people get to smile like the world's a fair place? Why do others drown in silence?
I've been told, "Find your purpose." Or worse—"Make one." But I'm not trying to build a reason out of scrap metal. I want something real. I want to believe there's meaning that exists without me having to forge it out of blood and tears.
The only person I like talking to is my girlfriend. She's in Texas. Far away. A screen is the only thing between us. She tries. She really does. But even she doesn't know everything. I keep these logs separate from the version of me she sees.
She knows I have trouble sleeping. She knows I see things sometimes. But she doesn't know the full weight of the rot. I don't think anyone can. And I wouldn't want them to.
I'm typing all of this with a deadpan expression. I feel like I'm watching my own mind unravel in real time. It's like peeling wallpaper in a room that's slowly catching fire. I can feel the heat, but I don't move. I just watch.
It feels like my brain is infinite. Endless corridors of thought and pain and memory. And the worst part? That makes the suffering infinite, too.
God, what's wrong with me?
Was I born broken? Did something twist inside me while I was still forming in the womb? Or was it the trauma? The pressure? The years of pretending?
I don't know.
I keep telling myself I'm strong. That I can take it. But some days, I feel like I'm lying just to keep breathing. My soul is on fumes. My willpower's a flickering candle in a wind tunnel.
I don't want to go to Hell. That's what keeps me anchored. That tiny sliver of fear that maybe, just maybe, God's still watching. That maybe I'll be forgiven for surviving this way.
But sometimes... hope feels like a scam.
And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending it's enough.
[End of Log-3: Life]