Deadbolt Diary

The yellow tint of the cool morning sun bleeds through the plated shades of my sliding glass door this December morning. A sense of nauseousness refuses to lift, blending with an anxiousness from the past five days. I apply five cups of french pressed coffee to the sick, making it worse. I want to vomit.

I sit in the center of my living room, listening to the hum of machinery from the outside world. I take solace here, hidden away from the others. A delivery has been made and when they knocked I became even more silent. Holding my breath, I wait until they leave to exhale, retrieving the package. On my days off I can’t be bothered to interact without necessity. Perhaps if I need supplies I will slink out when no one is about.

My energy is waning. The dullness of integrating into society no longer seems feasible nor particularly valuable. I fantasize of driving off in the dead of night and setting up camp in some far off cave. I imagine I could farm mushrooms, forage the wilds, perhaps even trap small game. This is fantasy though. I have no true survival skills, a fact I disrelish. At least I have books on the subject.

All these people, caught up in the monotony of it all. Taking pride in sacrificing themselves at the altar of commerce. They give themselves to these companies and allow themselves to be shaped and molded in their image. They want to be good employees and not question the way of things, get married, have children. What a horror that is, to desire the truly mundane.

Each day I observe them and feel grateful. I still have my identity in my isolation. I still have my dreams and my ambitions. These people speak to me, but I sense their discomfort in my responses. My dark humor and sarcasm grate them. As long as we’ve been together, I’d imagined they’d no longer expect a comforting retort. I was wrong.

I suppose I do this on purpose in a sense. I push people away. I view them as complications and one could argue it’s based in fears. Fear of intimacy, fear of connecting, maybe even of my own vulnerability. There are times when I no longer am sure how to define myself by available terms. Sometimes I see myself as a misanthrope, as a nihilist, or even an objectivist. I’m a pile of inconsistencies and contradictions.

I’m prone to serious bouts with depression, but I continue to struggle through those dark waves as they come. I focus on self improvement and am succeeding on that front as of late. Through the rediscovery of my passions, the rejection of ideals I don’t hold, and becoming more physically active. The depression remains, the suicidal ideations, the troubled sleep, strained relationships and all, but I’m getting there.

Today is a day of reflection, to change the wrappings of these open sores and heal for the coming week.

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