Who the fuck am I?

I keep a journal. Most of it’s pretty boring with banalities such as, “I practised some guitar today. Manchester United won 2-0 (list of players that scored with their shirt numbers.)” and then other pages will  read like a dramatic interval in between, though the drama may be seen as trite itself, but nevertheless it’ll read like it was written by some deep thinking philosopher with a longing for dramatics on a stage. Reading through my journal will no doubt come across like the man who wrote it had multiple personalities. On the one hand, you have pages written by an apparently troubled man, that one may read into it and think, “this is the mind of someone ready to snap and become homicidal.” Not just because of the words, and how they’re so angrily written onto the paper leaving traces of each word on the next page over. But because of the shit, child-like black and white doodlings of a madman. Stickmen with knives protruding out their guts, it looks homicidal except these stickmen are often representations of myself. I have some sexual doodlings with big crosses over them that then in big capitals have the word, ‘Filth’ written over. Other pages will read with the first sentence being something like, “We have been too long upholding these delusions of grandeur, these are mere illusions I want no part of but yet still find myself playing my role.” Other pages read like a man who has just gotten out of the darkest depths, you can tell this to be the case because I’ll usually have been talking about my cowardice in not being able to end my own life. A week or so later I’ll be writing about the birds I’ve seen that day and how I am feeling like nature and me, I being a part of nature have come to a mutual understanding of one another. I talk like I’m on a mission not from God, as I don’t believe, but from the perspective that humans are the translation of nature into words. I will see myself as being some kind of saviour, like if I could just translate nature for people and they translate what they know we’re all messiahs in our own right.  Sometimes I read through it and think, “Who the fuck am I?”


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