s00ngone
All you can feel is the weather
- Mar 21, 2025
- 80
Waking up late, later than I want to. Sister goes to school at 8; I'm still in bed. Listening for footsteps, voices. Wondering if I'll be woken up. The guilt of being wrapped up in a blanket while my stepdad is out breaking his back laying concrete... the work I won't do. The participation I refuse to give.
The world goes on around me. I think of dying - I think of Shayan. I think of when he asked if I'd seen the new Lady Gaga music video and I watched it with utter existential dread at the meaninglessness of making music and dancing and filming it to be released on a global scale... the reductionist, overly fixated dissociation that removes me from the human experience. I think of him and it burns. He was over watching Severance. I wanted to blink out of existence, to decorporealize, to be done with being human at all, simply because to be human is exhausting and unbearable in itself... we watched like nothing was wrong. Like normal.
And that's just it. Normal. Nothing about how I feel right now or how I've felt for months (or years before that) has been normal. Not good, not bad, not normal. Bizarre, surreal, distorted, uncomfortable, grotesque, mutated. I look to Instagram to see Shayan's face. I miss him. I'm not allowed to miss him - I'm not a person, and unpeople can't miss or be missed.
If it were a solvable problem, I'd maybe find the solution in a self-help book or in therapy or in the right conversation with a friend or in good music or better food or a nice nature walk or the beauty of simply breathing another breath... and yet. I grasp and my fists close around air. It could have been great... if I were, or weren't. If I knew myself, if I were someone, if I hadn't built my life up to be years of spiraling to crash and burn.
I thought about his journal last night. The entries he wrote about me. As horrible and desperate the thought of my family's reactions to my ctb feels, it's that, the trace of myself left in his journal, the brief period of bliss turned sour, the knowing that this strange person so suddenly in and out of his life will be gone, that kills me to think about. That life was not... something I could hold onto.
The world goes on around me. I think of dying - I think of Shayan. I think of when he asked if I'd seen the new Lady Gaga music video and I watched it with utter existential dread at the meaninglessness of making music and dancing and filming it to be released on a global scale... the reductionist, overly fixated dissociation that removes me from the human experience. I think of him and it burns. He was over watching Severance. I wanted to blink out of existence, to decorporealize, to be done with being human at all, simply because to be human is exhausting and unbearable in itself... we watched like nothing was wrong. Like normal.
And that's just it. Normal. Nothing about how I feel right now or how I've felt for months (or years before that) has been normal. Not good, not bad, not normal. Bizarre, surreal, distorted, uncomfortable, grotesque, mutated. I look to Instagram to see Shayan's face. I miss him. I'm not allowed to miss him - I'm not a person, and unpeople can't miss or be missed.
If it were a solvable problem, I'd maybe find the solution in a self-help book or in therapy or in the right conversation with a friend or in good music or better food or a nice nature walk or the beauty of simply breathing another breath... and yet. I grasp and my fists close around air. It could have been great... if I were, or weren't. If I knew myself, if I were someone, if I hadn't built my life up to be years of spiraling to crash and burn.
I thought about his journal last night. The entries he wrote about me. As horrible and desperate the thought of my family's reactions to my ctb feels, it's that, the trace of myself left in his journal, the brief period of bliss turned sour, the knowing that this strange person so suddenly in and out of his life will be gone, that kills me to think about. That life was not... something I could hold onto.
