ⓘ egomaniac autocannibalist
Im going to write about myself now.
digital diary
this is my digitized diary
It should concern people that I do not care about them, sincerely, no emotion is expressed when complaints or praise are voiced about me or at me. I live pretty independently of what people think about me. This makes me a shitty friend to all those who aren’t close to me. Im sorry to all those who thought my friendliness meant we could be friends. I dress in pastels, I don’t have muscles — honestly I’m extremely weak. My appearance speaks before I get to. Both racial prejudice but also to those who may look past that — Im a sweet young girl, with a polite face and pink make up. I smile, I laugh, but then get closer and an emotional vacancy (imminent unemotionality) strikes harder than any of my attempts to care. Im not going to be as soft as expected, I won’t care. I don’t do it purposely. I do not know why some people get emotion privileges and others don’t. Sometimes this even seems arbitrary because those who sacrificed for me, I end up caring nothing for. Some hope it’s a phase, they hope I can love like they love me. But relationships are not something you can hope, you nurture them, and Im not nurturing anything. Im creative, I drown myself in a bubble full of all my art, all my writings, and all my melodies. It’s beautiful inside of me, it’s careless and so free from judgement, and it’s comfortable and peaceful because it’s silent, and quiet. I contradict. How emotional and vulnerable I become with the select few. I think if I loved others too, it would cut from the cake of those I care about now. It would cut from their slices, and from mine. It’s good then, that my care is reserved for very few people.
I think it’s so stupid how people think the way I write determines how I talk in real life. I use (bla bla ok somewhat) proper grammar and punctuation but still, my personal preference shines through. I place spaces before and after an em-dash because that’s my preference, I don’t like to leave out the apostrophe in “I’m” and “don’t”, but it still happens to me. Despite my “seriousness” in speech, I use emoticons/kaomojis, I make typos and sometimes capitalize words I didn’t intend to capitalize just because when I write in all caps, those specific words are most often used. I just dislike seriousness, uprightness, and “professionalism”. I think they’re pretentious. I think people who try to appear that way are usually the most degenerate, insecure and uncritical. Those who can’t admit to themselves their lies and façade. Despite it I respect them, they have a determination for success or praise or respect born out of fear that I couldn’t force out of myself even in the trenches of despair. It’s fascinating and depressing at the same time. The reason I’m saying all this, is to be honest. I don’t speak like this in real life — in the flesh. This is how I talk in my head, in my writings, and how I would prefer to talk with friends. But once I adopt this speech into my usual manner of speaking, I will only attract the people I’ve described above. Unauthentic, boring, plain… Disgusting.
sweet 16
I notice, I’ve always been a little preoccupied with thoughts to distract me from joy. Anticipation was never a true experience. Even when I did experience it — undertones flying like tinsels in hair would show. Undertones of a little disappointment. I was a contradictory child it seems, because everyone who knew me describes me vastly differently. The only reliable narrator seems to be me, the subject in and of the experience. I don’t know now, what to do with the things left from the past because these experiences cease to be mine when I have to ask others what I felt. I have two kinds of memory. The one where all the negative experiences are erased, and a forged beautiful memory is created. And that, which doesn’t exist anymore, and no one wants to tell me what fills the blank. Today, Tuesday 12th August 2025 is my birthday, and I turn 16. 10 years ago, I remember nothing from my 6th birthday.
about myself.
I guess the indifference is a double edged sword then. Not caring about others doesn’t mean I care about myself, but still I’m human, so self confidence if not from me, has to come from others. I would like someone to hold up the mirror of truth up to my face, the one that doesn’t warp my reflection, but doesn't place flowers around my face either, so I can recognize really what’s happening. I’m as blind as anybody else in that regard, despite how I may feel and view things differently. (And is the disappointment self inflicted and melodramatic, or do I have a point?)
My Body frequently confuses me. I do not understand why my face is that shape, why my eyes stare that way, and why people look at me like that. Often, I can't even believe this is my body. I think of it as a shadow, so when light falls onto me, and I wake up on a gentle morning, and stare at my self — I can only barely belive I’m real, I’m here, I’m alive. I breathe and live and think and experience, but I don’t believe my body is alive. I’m not talking about this metaphorically, although that wouldn’t be so inaccurate either… Experiencing pain is very dull, no matter how hard I get hit, it hurts mentally and emotionally first before I ever experience it physically. My body feels like vapor, taking on the shape my mind would. This body is a tool, it exists to protect me when my mind can’t. That’s the only way I can make sense of my physical existence.
/ There's a new shape this disbelief takes on. I stare at my body and ask how to kill god (Why was I created the way I was & why do I adopt this way of viewing myself if I know this tool is temporary? How am I ever supposed to be at peace with my existence if I cant be good to the most obvious version of me?)
If I were to paint myself. What would become? What colors, what contrasts? What could you take from that painting that isn’t entirely empty?
For the longest time you have been all I ever wanted. Theres always been a veil above this feeling, it’s gotten comfortable below it because, as with any intense feeling — lifting the veil would reveal me naked, cloaked in disgusting adolescent fantasy. I don’t understand it, more often than not, I just want something from that person, it’s not always something material, the things I want are always a little more deliberate, but recently it’s been developing into that too. I try to write about them, but it doesn’t work. I can’t get an honest word on paper. I lie. To myself, on my paper with my pencil. I am scared to see what it would mean to care in an honest manner. I have been very comfortable not caring about anybody else. I have been very, very, very comfortable cutting for myself the biggest slices, and leaving the rest with crumbs and charity. I’ve been very lucky to not have many question it. But now I become my own enemy. Now, I want to cut my cake into pieces, and gift them more than I thought I would ever give anyone. The cake(affection) I baked(reserved for) myself and it’s no longer mine. They decorate it with me, my heart, my life. They made it all the more beautiful, they made my time on earth all the more worthwhile.
It’s become so beautiful, I would prefer to forget hunger, forget the selfish. I become my own enemy. It’s like I'm the traitor from within. This eternally beautiful thing I had with myself, like a promise to always be with me, stand by my side. But now I stand on the outside of my walls, I walked from my mirror reflection, because their faces are so much more beautiful, and because the touch of skin is so much more comfortable than that of glass, and sweat and metal. The feeling of closeness is so much more fulfilling than any selfishness I’ll ever reserve for myself. This sudden enlivening of my emotions has made me the most pathetic that Hue has ever been. Does it make any difference, that atleast I’m aware?
It’s very interesting watching me go insane when faced with shame.
When I feel attacked by some part of my heritage, I cut away everything that connects me to it, I ask why I can’t just have been born any kind of European. And when I realize that even if I were, they would still hate me so much, this time for my critique, my voice, my feelings, me as the person I am, it crumbles in my hands. My skin color and heritage just speak first, they want an excuse to hate and it’s easiest to hate whats obvious. I don’t know how to explain it at all. I never noticed myself, I walked through the streets and I never noticed that they viewed me as different. My world was pale skin, blonde hair, rain and sun, I assumed I was a part of it, I truly thought I was just like them. I never felt a stranger, but I am. And more than that, I'm an enemy. Why is the label “migrant” still there after naturalization? My assimilation did nothing for them, to consider me as German*. The only thing it has ever done is make me so careful of how I present myself — has only instilled the deepest and most painful shame into me.
I don’t know how I can justify myself anymore. It’s ridiculous, you'd assume existence is justified just through that. How do I justify my existence to a whole country that has never even considered my life as valuable.
Since 2015 they fail to recognize my humanity.
Why can’t I just have been European. I paint my life brighter, easier. Where I dont have to answer the endlessly stupid "Wo kommst du denn wirklich her?".
Bei gott sogar.
In my right hand, I wield a wand and I create beautiful things (as the vessel for art). My wand is a paint brush.
In my left hand, I wield a sword and I fight the enemy. My sword is the ultimate (my ego).
In the ideal, my hands carry what's given. I recognize my wrongs. That is the sacrifice of both my left and right hand. Those which give and take, share and hoard. Caress and strike.
Sometimes they are with blood, I can never tell if the violence is out of fear and desperation or greed and destruction.
I can never tell, if my goodness is pure, or a ploy to satiate the everlasting ego.
Ultimately, I exist as a human. I create and I destroy, it’s all the same. Destruction and creation.
On altruistic self sacrifice and egomaniac auto cannibalism, they exist as one.
(The biggest fear of the humble should be Ego death turning into an Ego trip)
It's so special when I love (in my subjective experience of life)
I become so naked. So vulnerable. I let my armor and my tower fall. I erase sword and shield from my memory, I'm human. (I retreat to them so fast. Armor, sword and shield like my friends are war. Like love is a battle of survival.)
I lose myself, and regain myself again. I lose sleep over this and get my face all salty and disgusting. Am I going to embody the cruelty of war, the sword of a violent, uneducated young knight piercing; to conquer survival for once and for all.
Or will I embody the highest. The sacrificial.
Inside of my ivory tower, I sweat, I'm numb. I don't even notice my isolation, when I have nobody to talk to I don't notice it hurts me. Unlike when I am outside.
Outside of myself, surrounded by others. I'm afraid. I love and I show none of it. Suspicion. The melody of question plays until they return that of reassurance. It takes so long, so long... for me to let go fully of my suspicion filled body.
Muscles always ready to fight for myself again. Twitching (literally)
(Imagine when I let myself fall) I sacrifice, I allow myself to be human, and the one with the sword is infact not me, but the other.
What shape does my ivory tower take then? What becomes of my apathy.
I fall in the war I fight and start. That my friendships are war to me. That I am so weak, I have to act so strong.
(I cant tell if I ***e you yet.)
He is the manifestation.
He isn’t just an individual, he is definitely not authentic enough to develop individuality.
He manifests the contradictory religious values, the ignorance, the dehumanization. And because he is a man in the patriarchy, he is violent. He is the family, he is the final of what it means.
The pattern is unmistakable. And it deems me the mistake. I’m far from the core of the problems, but because I make them heard I am infact the problems.
hedonism&such. I am nothing if I cant express myself loudly, violently and in boldness. The urge to fill all the silence with something REALlY lOUd. YES do mosh pit me, loud music; make my ear drums bleed, make me forget I have a life outside of escape. Escape in music, sensation and expression.
Elements of this are techno and rap music, party, rave, monochrome, technology, and an appeal for exclusivity, specifically in highly tense enviroments (music, fashion industry, finance & business) and high fashion but also swords, weapons, the morgenstern, bright lights and mythology. you could call this "the prodigy adolescent".
[The idealization of what I've never had. This is the final stage of human Isolation: Hedonism]
Image source: https://pin.it/8JQoVjK4W
I never know how to feel about representation. It always lacks something. For this image, it elaborates the Islam I grew up with as an African with Arab/African upbringing. But I’m not Muslim, and I don’t want to be Arab, something makes me aversive, avoidant and very afraid of ever attempting to connect with that part of me, I don’t feel connected to Arab culture or nationality aside from my upbringing. It is the rigid rules of my childhood told to me by family and society (pre 2015, Libya, Egypt, Sudan) that I do not agree with. Trying to connect with my Arabic (Sudanese Nubian/egyptian) would mean reconsidering accepting these rules (adherence to society)... and I don't do that. I dont adhere.
I grew up in Germany, I was born in Sudan, learned about Islam with my Muslim family in a Christian and very white country and now I’m something where neither German, Sudanese, Nubian or Arabic fit as a label . I’m a weird mixture of so much and still I can’t look outside of myself and find anything I relate with. I know how I experience myself, how I identify myself (Ethnic identity). But no one will take that serious, no one even knows what ethnic identity truly entails. The way I want to exist in this world hasn’t existed as a country or society, I must be insane for not behaving, not complying. African Muslim Migrant German? girl*. Constantly I’m dehumanized, belittled for the most stupid things. By family, for being bad at Arabic, In fact not wanting to learn it anymore, for being difficult, being “corrupted by the west”. By German society, for being who I am, darkskin, loud when they “critique” Islam, Arab culture, African heritage. Even when they’re not full racists they don’t know how to talk to me, they don’t know I’m human like them. By my closest friends, they can’t accept I’m different. They block out what makes me arabic, african, sudanese, black, (strangely not what makes me german) political, “complicated” and only focus on what connects us for comfort. I don’t need friends that deny me because they can’t handle nuance. This one is the hardest to me. I value friendship over anything, my friends hold a very special place in my life, yet they can’t even accept I’m different and still view me as human. They need to block it out to be able to like me. On this huge planet, there is no space for a girl* like me. There is no comfort for a girl* like me. But I’m real and I’m human. I carry so much history in me from all these countries and people, I know more than them. I’m not wrong, I know I’m not because I can recognize humanity, I’m not worrying how to speak to someone different from me. I’m not confused about policy and politics. I carry more humanity in me because of the inhumanity I’ve experienced. I know I’m right because I know how to accept myself.
[redacted]
“Death is release, is resolution. And whatever comes after or doesn’t come after, is [that] resolution.”
–Hue, May 2025
