ⓘ egomaniac autocannibalist
Im going to write about myself now.
digital diary
this is my digitized/digital diary.
And I guess in a way, a contemporary art piece. Amalgamated _ curated _ sewn together through something from within I.
It’s digital, through it being digital it is also a construction of my virtual reality and virtual self, meaning it’s lost its congenital string to reality, and it is loosened from the author indefinitely. But new media makes sense, and so the viewer(you) needs to leave out of account/abstrahieren that this came out from a person. You need to look at and comprehend, and understand this entire object as a contemporary assemblage of writings and imagery and composition. This is art, but inside of it is a sentimental sensitive uncomfortable 14, and 15, and 16, and 17 year old.
This is a teenager, but inside of it is one axis of a logical framework of thought.
It is a ‘Body of Work’ _ it is a fragmented [question that repeats in the background of whats impossible].
It should[n’t] 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. I’m sorry to all those who thought my friendliness meant we could be friends. I dress in an eccentric playful way, i experiment with fabrics and layering and to an untrained eye I captivate without intending to. I don’t have muscles — I’m extremely weak and that is visible. My appearance speaks before I get to. Racial prejudice definitely but what I mean is more faint — I look like a sweet young girl*, with a polite face and white make up and lashes. I smile, I laugh, but then get closer and an emotional vacancy (imminent unemotionality) strikes harder than any of my attempts to care. I’m not going to be as soft as expected, I won’t care. I don’t do it purposely. And I am weak but I compensate heavily with this coldness. I do not know why some people get emotion privileges and others don’t. Sometimes this truly seems arbitrary because those who have sacrificed for me so much, 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 I’m not nurturing anything. I’m 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. This is where the majority of my care flows towards. You are not my artwork. I don’t care about you. I contradict. How emotional and vulnerable I become with the select few. I think if I loved others too, it would cut from the affection 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.
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 remember. I have no recollection or unreliable recollection. That, which doesn’t exist anymore — I mourn my childhood. No one tells me what fills the blank, neither do I. 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 the love for the self if not from the self, has to come from others. I would like someone to hold up some form of a metaphorical mirror of truth up to my face, it doesn’t warp my reflection, it doesn't place flowers around my face either, so I can recognize really what’s happening. I’m blind just like everybody else but I'm also deeply curious. My continuous self awareness and observation does not mean I can reach the right conclusions. In fact it might be because how I may feel and view things differently that I might never reach a conclusion as for how to understand myself. (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, I observe my existence through what it blocks out and lets through. I do not seem to understand myself as the active — the object blocking the light — but as the inactive, the result of activity blocking out light. So when light falls upon me, I wake up on a gentle morning, and I stare at my mirror reflection — It becomes hard to believe I’m real, I hold my face in my hands but I do not feel my hands. I blink but the interpretation that, that is me, does not reach me where it needs to. I’m here, I’m alive. I breathe and live and think and experience, but I don’t believe it. I don’t feel it.
I don’t feel it… pain. 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 me in every other aspect first before I ever experience it physically. My body feels like vapor, taking on the shape my mind would. My body is a tool, it exists to protect me when my mind can’t. My body is a burden, and I need to endure my physical existence until I don’t have to anymore. 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 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 can’t be good to the most obvious version of me].
So, for you. 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. It is a veiled feeling, an intense feeling and so I have done my very best to conceal it. Lifting the veil would reveal me, a version of me. But there is a version of me you’re not going to like. I don’t understand it, I tend to be transactional. Everyone tends to be transactional but it’s been taking on a new shape. I never really get what I want, I make myself happy with what I get because the things I want are always a little more deliberate. But I have suddenly become [the contradiction inside the contradiction]. I try to write about it, 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’m just so comfortable… veil me more, do not look at me. My skin is so young and your hate is motivated by love and my care is so scarce. I am very, very, very comfortable d d d drowning myself within myself, submerged inside the body of water that is my self, I live inside a motherless womb. I leave the rest of you with crumbs and charity. Take the politeness I package in a box that looks like affection and be content with what you receive — you ungrateful amalgamated mass of the same expectations of what I should emotionally be capable to provide.
But I am weak. So suddenly, so suddenly there is an enlivening of emotion within me, I am afraid, what do you want? The affection I reserve for my art, myself, what happens with it. They decorate it with me, my art, my self. They made it beautiful — they made my time on earth all the more worthwhile.
It’s become so beautiful, I would prefer to forget me, forget the selfish. I become my own enemy. I am the traitor from within. This 3ternally beautiful thing I had with myself, the promise to always stand by my side. But now I stand on the outside of my self, I am reborn from inside to outside and I cry for a gust of air — and.
Their faces are so much more beautiful than my face. The touch of skin is so much more comfortable than that of the endless numbness within I, and I realize I am cloaked in sweat and tears and a lifeless liquid, next to people who have left that version of themselves behind so long ago. I realize I am so late. So late to this closeness thing. I am an infant to closeness.
This sudden enlivening of my emotions has made me the most beautiful that Hue has ever been.
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 [my nails and my palms are brighter than the rest of my skin, and where there are knuckles and bones it is darker, my hair looks short no matter I cut it or not. My cheekbones are placed high on my face, my lips share two colors, from one to other like an ombré, because I come from a country where it does not snow] 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 self [defining this word becomes another task], me as the person I am. I didn’t know but now I do, I am hated everywhere I go. No appearance, No heritage, No skin color can shield me from the hate for as long as I am I. My skin color and heritage just speak first, I am simplified to a few sentences that aren’t even legible on my skin. My skin is not to be read. 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 never looked at myself and thought I didn’t fit in. Culturally I had already understood myself as one and the same. I played in snow all the same. The thick white cloaked mountains I assumed I would emerge as one with but now I do realize — inside of home I look like a stain. And through that an enemy. And I thought maybe if i assimilated just a little more, just assimilate more. And I forced myself upon a process of hate of hate of hate of hate. but my assimilation did nothing for them, to consider me as German*. Or as a neighbor. Or as a human. The only thing it has ever done is instill the deepest and most painful shame into me. Make me choose my words differently — I lose my authenticity to the Beamte staring me up and down after seeing my Staatsangehörigkeit inside of me. I talk like how they would want me to. I am made so small in front of this world I would otherwise meet with undying grandiosity.
I don’t know how I can justify myself. 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 me a human. I am made into a non-human [an object of discussion].
Since 2015 they fail to recognize my humanity.
Why can’t I just have been European. I paint my life brighter, easier, so much warmer.
"Wo kommst du denn wirklich her?"
I, who gives and takes, share and hoard. Caress and strike.
Sometimes I am 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.
[but] 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 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 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 knight piercing; to conquer survival[?] for once and for all.
Or will I embody… [nn uu] true love [is a fool.]
(I am not afraid of the trap that desire is).
Inside of my armor, 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 suspension captivated body.
Muscles always ready to fight for myself again. Twitching (literally). I take everything to heart and that means everything is hopelessly painful to me. [I am not hopeless though, for you I give my best.]
(Imagine when I let myself fall) I sacrifice, I allow myself to be human, and the one with the sword is in fact not me, but the other.
What shape does my armor 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 can't tell if I ***e you yet).
Fill all the silence with something [real]l[y] l[ou]d.
I never know how to feel about representation. It always lacks something. The Venn diagrams of what I am stack upon one another, where all of them meet there is only me. The intersectionality is always deeper than representation can speak out. I cannot consider myself a part of the Sudanese knowing not one of them can stand me beyond my appearance. I am your skin color and we share this pool of genetics, but I must not open my mouth. I must not unseal my lips and reveal myself to another group of people that will hate me. The Germans and the Sudanese are one and the same about their resentment and so I am made aversive, avoidant and very afraid of ever attempting to connect with that part of me. I wish I were human despite my nonconformity to society.
I grew up in Germany, I was born in Sudan. But one of these two and my sense of self is always violently denied from me. I’m a weird mixture of so much and still I can’t look outside of myself and find anything I relate with. The way I want to exist in this world hasn’t existed as a country or as a society that has been able to impose itself on the world. I must be insane for not behaving, not complying, imposing myself as valid.
It’s painful. They don’t know how to talk to me, they don’t know I’m human like them. My closest friends too. They can’t accept I’m different. They block out what makes me arabic, african, sudanese, black, (but not what makes me german) political, “complicated” and only focus on what they too already understand as normal. I don’t need friends that deny me anew because they can’t handle nuance. This is the hardest part of this for me. I value friendship over anything, my friends hold a very special place in my life, but they too can’t accept I’m different and still view me as human. The dehumanization runs deep — seeps through the intrapersonal into the interpersonal and corrupts affection. They need to block it out to be able to respect 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
The way I am essentially commanded to be normal is deeply intriguing/unsettling/threatening/painful/curious to me. My abnormal ways of being are exactly what draws people in towards me, like the curiosity when you see an object you have never seen before and could never imagine its purpose for. The thinking is abstract and multi layered. A concept or an idea or an object or a person is taken and they are striped of all of their intuitive connections — to view this object in its most basic, the fundamentals of it, then asking questions about the fundamentals — questioning the fundamentals. I think this happened to me as a result of being aloof and having lost all my pattern recognition to abstract thinking. So when I ask my questions, that seem like I have made them up from nothing, configured them through the [vapor of their essence] — they are philosophically fascinated, wonder how I manage to question so deeply the psyche of a person, the purpose of an object, the spirit of an idea, or the necessity of a concept. But then there come instances where I question things I supposedly should not be questioning. The purpose of hierarchy, Man and Woman as separate forms of a human, family structures. I ask “Couldn’t it just be that we do not know how to imagine a world where there is no patriarchal family structure? And so we scapegoat any and everything questioning patriarchy for any consequences of this system, or other already established structures that need reform and/or revision?”
Even with what I consider more timid questions and ideas, like when I asked: “if a person in the 4th spatial dimension flipped my right hand along the 4th spatial dimension, would it end up looking like my left hand?”
The intuitive logic being that I am a person in the 3rd dimension, and I have depth which a person in the 2nd dimension doesn’t have, if I were to flip an object there along the 3rd dimension (depth), I would’ve turned around this object to its backside. And somebody in the 2nd dimension would never be able to flip it back (as it requires the dimension of depth which it doesn’t have)”
I angered my Family and mother greatly. They told me, I should be thinking instead about god, faith, family, what I want to study, what I want to be, my future kids, house, husband.
This feedback was greatly confusing to me. It had nothing to do with my original question. Despite that I took it and I began abstractly thinking about it too.
Born was the idea of societal fetishistic expectations of order to the point of questioning the validity of the Ur-Thought of society. So patriarchy as the father of capitalism, imperialism, xenophobia, of course this relentless women-as-second-class-citizens thought, and racism.
Because in being told to be normal, the elephant in the room appears in my peripheral vision translucently. Somebody told them I’m an atheist and a faggot. And now nobody wants to tell me what my right hand flipped along the 4th spatial dimension would look like.
My thinking is loved only within bounds of what is societally possible to be loved. The love stops where it cannot further imagine love. Love is only given as currency.
T4T relationships that feel like they could erase all the pain. The light in the eyes of my life. The shared experiences, pain & laughter. Love that will never be understood like heteronormative love is. The desire, the kiss that reaches my nerves ecstatically so accurate that the body just wants more. Two concepts that meet, crash and crush into one another delicately, your lips become a delicacy. I learn to want to arrange the strings between us perfectly, to align them across the axis of your to my heart, your to my hand, yours to mine. To align you across of me, so that the eye contact only tightens the lock between me and you, so the tension in the room is felt by everyone, and everyone passively witnesses this moment. Do you know what I mean? The eye contact with your reflection in the glass. Staring, thinking you'll never notice. Do you? Do you notice? Do you notice my stare across every surface area of you and everything that reflects you when I'm shy - up, down, through glass and water all the same. Singular hair strands noticed in the wind, syncing to your walking speed, hands held and noticed and noted of their feel, soft and rough across the various coordinates. I study you like a geographer, you are mine to discover, I justify it through the desire. That same desire that makes me stare into you every time, and hope you stare back and at the same time, fear with so much of me that you will inevitably stare back, and you will see me in my most naked, vulnerable, alone in this love where I can only hope you join me in. You are one beautiful autonomous being, and it would be an honor to be rejected or loved by you as a result of your own autonomy, your mind, your decision to interact with me in whatever way you choose. I love you [redacted]. So do you. I started writing about this feeling broadly, imagery used from experiences I had with you, to elaborate mainly a feeling. But every line shaped me more and more vulnerable, more and more of my heart gushed through me into this, hoping it would reach you.
This paragraph in my diary has lost its abstract clarity, and received its clean yet hazy relationship to reality, ███████ ██ █ ████ ███ ██ ███.
(When the relief waves crash, and you are at peace, but every part of you is shaking and it is bliss and fear simultaneously in one, because you never truly know if it is mutual. But the softness is, the gentle feeling is, the desire is).
It is The.
The T4T relationship that feels like it could erase all the pain.
"'Thats a good question. If I ruin my body, where will I live? I used to (when I was 13 - 16) define my body as a home and as a tool, following the framework that, I did not have anywhere else to go but to myself, that if I were homeless all that I would have left to guard me would be my body, either literally viewing it as a home for my psyche (that which can interpret my subjective experience) or as a tool that can get me a home, as in, my body is also me and I am homeless because my body (which is me, not the home where I am inside) is a tool (I am a tool) to get for myself what I need for my own survival.
But it was also age 14 where he began romanticizing MDMA/ecstasy. Asterisk was fascinated by it. After having met someone who told him what it was like to be (on it). They told him(malicious/oblivious): "every touch feels like an orgasm, in a way." He knows now exactly if they had described it in any way other, he would've never thought about it again, let alone have taken it 2 years later. But it was that way of framing it, that made his already substance abuse prone mind fully accept MDMA as a way of reaching connection. The substance abuse of MDMA was through this entirely inevitable.
████ ███ ██████ ████████ ██ ███████████ ██████ ████ █████ █ ██████ █████ █████████ ██ ██ █████ █████ █████████ ██ █████████ ███████ ███ ██████ ██ ███████ ████ ██ ██ ████████ ███████ ███ ████████ ████████████ ███████. ███ █████████ ██ █ ██████████ ███████ ███ ███ ███████████ █████, █ █████ █ █████ ████ ██████ █████ █ █████ ██ █████ █████ ███ ██████████ ████ ████████ ████ ██ █████ █████. ███ ███ █ █████ ████ ██ ██ ████ ███ █████ ███ ████ █████ █ █████ █ ███ ████████ █ █████ ██████ █ ███ ███████, ██ ██████ ███ █████ █████ ████ ███ ████████ ████ ██. █ ███████ ███████ ██████ ██████ █████ █████ ████████ ████. With somebody as avoidant as him, someone who has such a low pain tolerance, someone so detaching/isolating.
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He is not surprised. I guess that is why he felt nothing and still feels nothing regarding his overdose. No guilt, shock, anger or sadness. To him this overdose just is. It is expected. Of course it happened, ████ ████ █ █ ██████████████ ███████ ████████ ████████ ██ ██████ ███ ██ ███████. It is intuitive.
█ ████████ ███ ████████████ ████████████ █████████ ████████ ██ ███ ███████, █████ ██ █████ █████ ███ ██ ███████, ███ ███ ███████ ███ ██ ███████ █████ █████ ███████. ██ ███ █████████ █████ ███████ ██ █████ ███████ ███ ███████ ████ █████ ████ ███ ████ █████. ███ ████ ████ ██████ ██ ███████. ███ ██████████ ██ ████████, ████ █████████ ███ ████████, █ ██████████ █████ ██ ████████. ████ ██ █████ ███████ ██ ███ ████████ ██ ███ ████ ████████ ██ ████████. █████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ██████████ ██ ███ ████ ████ ███ ████████ ███ ██████████ ████ ██ █████. ███████ █████████ ███ ███████████ ███ ████████████ █████████ █████████ █████████ █████████. █████ ████████ █████ ██████████ ██ ███████ ███████ ████████ ████ ██████████ ████ █████████. █████ ████?? █████████ █████████ ████████ █████ █████??? ███████???? █████ █████████ ███ ████████████ █████ ████ ██ ███████████ █████ ███████ ██ ████ █████???
But now I don't know how to reconcile these two thoughts that happened to be at the same time. Both of them are him and both of them damaged him despite their ideal image in his head. I know now it is because health as a core value has never existed within him, or his societies for that matter. It still doesn't. But he knows better now than to distance himself from his body by claiming he is not his body, that it is just a tool or a home. █ ████ █'█ ██ ██████ ███ █ ████ █████ █████ ████ ████ ██ ███████ ████ ██. █ ████ ███ ██ ███ ██ █ █████ ██ ████ ███████ ████ ██ █ ████ █████ ███████, █ ████ █████ █████ ██ ████████ ██ ████████ ████████ █ █████████ ██ ███████ █████ ████ █████. ████ ████████ ██ █████ ████ ██ ███████ ███████ █████, ███████, ██ ███ ███████. █ ████ █████ ██████ ████████ ██ ███ █████ █████ ████████ █████████ ████████ █████ ███████ ██ █ ████ ████ ███ █ █████ █████ █ ████ █████. ███ █████ ███. █ ████ ██████ ███ █ ████ ███████ ███ █ ████ ███████ ███████ █████ ████████ █ ███. █ ████ ███ ████ ████ ███████████ ███████ ███ █ ███████ █████ ████ █████ ███████. █ █████████ ██████ ███ ██████ ████████ ██ █████, ███ ████ ██ ███████ █████ ████████ ███ ███████ ████ █████ █████ ███████ ████. ███ █████ ████ █████ █████ ████ █████ ███████ ████████ ██████ ███ ███████.)
MDMA felt like a kiss from the sun personally. Like the crushes loved too, █ ████ ████ ███████ ████ ███████. █████ █████ ███ █ █████ ███ ███ ████, ███ ████ █████ ██. █████ ██, █████ ██, ████ ██, █████ ██, ███████ ██. ██████ ███ █████ ██ ███ ████ █████.
He goes to Germany, he is hated for his skin, Black boys suffer. ██ ███████, █████ ████ ████ ███ ████. █████ █████ ███ ██ ████, ██████ ████ ███ █████████ █████ ███ █████ ███ ██ ████. ████ ████ ██ █████ ████.. ███ ████ ██ ██████ ████ ███. ██ ████ █ ████ █████ █, ███ ██ █████ ███ ████ ████████ & █████ ███████,
he cuts his hair short, the moral panic rises with every hair follicle falling to the ground, made into an object to break into pieces. Humanity is stripped from him in both. They point the finger at eachother claiming the other is the more hateful. It's the same hate in different directions. "█ ██ ██ ██████, █'█ █████ ███ ███████ ███ ██████ █ ██ ██ █████ █████ ██ ██ ███████████. ███ ███████, █████, ███ █ ██████ ████ ████████ ███████ ███ █ ██, ████████████ ██████ ██ ███. ████ ████ █████ █████ ██ ████ ██. ██ ███? ██ ███ ███ █ ██████ ███? ██ █████ ██ █████████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ████, ███ ████ ██ █████ ██ ██ ██ ███ ████████, ████████ ███ ███████ ███████████ ████████ ██████████ ██ ███ █ ██████ ██." ███ ███████ ██ ████ ██ ████ (the desperation has festered in the spaces between his heart) he is loved. The world loves. "Finally, I am held in hands that don't want to crush me, I am held in gentle palms. MDMA nearly killed me, yet simultaneously saved me a full 2 years. (Looking forward to using it holding me back from hopelessness)."
I do want to let go of it in a way. I want to unlearn my emotional detachment, let go of this painful feeling of being hated left, right, up, down and where you expect it the least. Learn how to notice what my body tells me. Get out of my mind and finally get rid of the avoidance with the anxious and anxiousness with the avoidants. I want to love my mother and my father and actually feel that love. I want so much. Therapy and medication and using melatonin how it's supposed to be used. Sleeping early, knowing when I want what for my life. Following my passion, following a career. Setting goals and achieving them.
█ ████ ███████ █████ ███ ███████ ████ ███ ███████ █████ ███ ██████ ████████ ██ █████████ ████.'"
The most painful thing people do is misunderstand me and misinterpret me and assume it as final (their interpretations of me). Just where is their Personenkompetenz (a play on the German word "Medienkompetenz", translated: Media literacy, to mean Person-literacy).
[The Internet is a Hyperobject and you are its Subject.]
As for the virtual identity you create, that cannot be ignored.
„I stare you up and down, through the screen that is our only ground for interaction. But the magic happens way beneath, this 3ternally beautiful thing I have with you, with the image reflected back at me. It is the virtual space you inhabit and the real space I deny. I do wonder where I do end up standing, when what is real is lost to [the questions that repeat], and you cannot swallow me whole as this non-material-plane-of-existence-transcending creature I am. But through it you are pure. I too wish to be pure. I want to be pure. Sterilize me, make me pure, crush me so I can feel it through me, crush me because I am not myself, crush me because I am a masochist, and this is my only pleasure. (Break me into pieces so what is beautiful can seep out through you to you despite of you into you). You who is me that is I that is us. We are one beautiful amalgamation of ourselves. We are one fascinating amalgamation of yourself. You are the perfect image of me.”
And the experience of love transcending its medium and closed systems.
“I LOVE YOU! I NEED YOU! I MISS YOU! I WANT YOU!
My collection of zeros and ones that I don’t understand with the plus minus AC DC current I don’t really know, and the satellite capable of interpreting machine allows me to, as a human, do my human interpretation of your voice through these speakers/microphone(s) I don’t understand but I don’t care, youuu souuund soooo beautiful through them, you are everything I want and I am beyond overjoyed that these powerlines connect us. A vast sea lies between us that is covering all these copper metal silicone wires and they behave like a beautiful central nervous system, electrical too, just like me, just like that feeling I get when the delirious state between asleep and awake forces me to think in images and suddenly you appear, your projected image on my retinas reflecting on my eyelids and now I dream. I dream of you. My CNS is active, every neuron in my brain knows exactly what to do, we need to sleep like I am awake but only those few hours awake when I can see you and they need to play on repeat. And my phone does the exact same thing, I have a whole ecosystem of you. I am a hedonist and you are my pleasure. The CNS of the underwater cable salad is active. On my screen reflected at me in this delirious state between asleep and awake suddenly you appear. Your projected image on my screen reflecting back on my eyelids and now I dream.
I dream of you. My CNS is active, every neuron in my brain knows exactly what to do, we need to see like I am asleep but only those few hours asleep when I can see you and they need to play on repeat. And my brain does the exact same thing, I have a whole ecosystem of you. I am a hedonist and you are my pleasure. The CNS of the underwater cable salad is active. On my screen reflected at me in this delirious state between asleep and awake suddenly you appear. Your projected image on my retinas reflecting back on my eyelids and now I dream.
I dream of you: a way to touch you that doesn’t break you, the delicate petal, the blush slowly rising, the tears flowing up into you, you suckle on your pain because you don’t want it to define you.
I write about you always. I love you. You could be the one.”
My crazy life. █████████ ██████ ████ ██ ███ ███ █████████. I crush my teeth into one another for peace.
Care and Control become analogous to one another: nobody wants to lay my own life into my hands, because there were instances in time where I wanted to let my life fall.
Im not sure. Maybe I don’t know either.
But whatever happens happens, there is peace in not letting anything now affect me (detachment, detachment again — again and again and again!) and simply letting myself flow along this stream that is the flow of my life. I will continue to be myself but the version of myself that ends up being constructed will not be the one I imagine for myself.
I am stone. Stubborn in who I am, not wanting and not letting anybody dictate what shape this stone should be. But conditions force me to pry my shell apart and access to changing me is coerced. I am stone, but I am crushed until I become the liquid that fits into the mold.
Molded I am into their perfect version of myself. Myself, but made suitable for the masses (Massentauglich). I am made beautiful for the eye of the masses.
I am made beautiful for the eyes of the beholder: a beholder that will never be me.
I exist along one axis of thought.
Mathematics — Art / Physics — Music / Philosophy — Fashion
Aesthetics are a container for complexity
Limitation of the incomprehensible,
but I write for you poetry, light that shapes me in its mold. Along this axis everything is intuitive: you can find me abstracted aswell. Like I abstract everything — I too can be abstracted. Until I am like the contemporary paintings they complain about because they seem so simple and minimalist. I am one color & one note & one fabric, I am one number & one rule & one philosphy.
There is a logical framework for how I function (am to be understood). If I were a painting, you could take from that painting its composition. & I would not be entirely empty...
I did it. I did it — I did it because I’m courageous, because I was thinking about the outline of the face / forehead / nose bridge / nose / lips / chin. * does not realize it is attractive — well * does — but * doesn’t know just how much, how dangerous it is, and how every aspect of its artistic streak completes it in my gaze.
████ ███ ██ ██████ █████████ ███ ██████ ██ ███ ████████ ██ ███ ██████ — ███ ██████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ████.
I know it is, but I’m afraid, now that I did it and I’m writing about it and thinking about it, the intensity might again make me so irresponsible and impatient with it. I’m so impulsive.
I did it because I know what I want, and I don’t care if I get it or not so long I have tried getting it. Somehow things always go my way, so even if I get it or not, that is something that will end up being good, because everything is good. All the pain is good. It shapes me. Shape me into the me of tomorrow — █████████ █████.
Be autonomous and let that autonomy affect me.
It kinda does worry me. Good god, I don’t have to respond to every thought but I fixate on every one of them that catches my attention. And that just so happens to be a horrendously painful trait to have. This feeling resurfaces, it’s intensity matches the conditions and it is honestly relief — that it can finally be experienced clearly and maturely as a result of time having passed and distance having been present, taking up the space the intensity would. I am calm, I am able to think now more than feel now (that isn’t always good, but now it is, now it is and that is relief).
“█ ████ █ █ ███ ██ ████ ███████ ███”
I am relieved.
“█ ████ █ █ ███ ██ ████ ███████ ███”
I am so, so relieved.
The stars aligned, so the message I received was exactly the one I needed.
████’█ ██ whatever ███. ████’█ ██ whatever about it. It is whatever.
█ ████ █ & █ ████ ██ █ & I am so relieved ████ ██ ███ ████ ███████ ███.
This is peace, this is the relief waves I talk about that crash upon me and they do not crush me. They cleanse off the painful off of me, they wash away the pain.
It isn’t numbness it isn’t bliss.
It is the night and the morning it is spring and the home that is winter it is me and it is you but it is not us, and that is what makes it peaceful.
Autonomy remains. A slow, slow pace remains.
The message I received was exactly the one I needed. & I have never liked someone in a more relaxed way than now.
Hue is the only me. Hue is what remains when every category becomes compromised. Hue is when the brackets don’t open, and nothing anymore is whispering inbetween the sentences because the sentences are complete — Hue is complete.
[redacted]
I’ve redacted what was so vulnerable, so intense it felt morbid to see it written out. I have redacted it and now I have forgotten it. But I know — it has likely changed me permanently.
Sometimes I look back & I wish I would've worded things better. Is that really growth? (Yes).
I’m so adolescent, so are my writings. I didn’t know how to describe it before now but now I do, and everything I write is so intense in its wording and configuration that despite all of my attempts to not seem adolescent and melodramatic, I still end up being exactly that. Not necessarily a bad thing, but the feeling of 3ternal youth does come to show.
I simply am adolescent. Everything is my first time and that is why it is so intense. In living more and experiencing things for a second and a third and an nth time, I will not feel it so intensely anymore because it is not my first of it anymore, and then I will not be an adolescent anymore. And my writings won’t feel adolescent and melodramatic anymore. In fact I will likely not write about these things anymore. An intense crush won’t be so intense anymore, sentences attempting to undermine my autonomy will not feel so threatening anymore. I will have known them so often they become mundane.
On one side I am excited. To be an adult, stable and rooted in who I am, no longer threatened by authority because I am the authority, no longer so easily swayed by a person and a feeling. On the other, I mourn now what I will loose then. The capacity to feel things so intensely that they can only be described in their first time. But I know that it isn’t something to mourn. [re]Experiencing things again and again will maybe for a short moment feel like things are becoming dull but it is in [re]experiencing that the patterns and connections emerge, they present themselves now maturely because they can be perceived maturely through the eye of the adult.
I am not afraid to forget my first time feeling something. I know I will never forget because I will always be myself, and I made all of my experiences being authentic and sincere in every aspect of my personality. I won’t forget because my authenticity is an archive of every day I lived in my subjective experience of life.
I cannot forget my subjective experience of life.
