I devour

27 Apr, 2025

I try not to chew the events that make up the mosaic that is my life.

Select digitalized excerpts of my journal (sometimes the entire thing)

2024-08-30

(...) it is such an evil thing to wish, death for someone. Especially someone who loved you so selflessly, but I think and think, and I am just a daughter. I think of my mom first and foremost, I love her to the point I take on her grudges, even when—perhaps—she may hold none. I am aware this is a matter I should look deeper into. But why does everything need to be worked on? Maybe some bonds are above it all. Nothing to "fix."

2024-08-31

A day can sometimes feel so long, almost endless. I am properly exhausted and burnt out, especially because I had to step up in class today. I seem to fundamentally lack some sort of God-given charisma that is needed to run a class the way [REDACTED] does. At least now, I know teaching is (definitely) not for me.

Guilt, however, I am very much capable of. I’d like to say the entry on my left¹ has nothing to do with the nightmares, but that’s just a lie. I suppose it’s a good sign, though. That some things are so heavy (morally speaking) that my subconscious forces me to acknowledge them.

My appointment² on the 2^nd lingers like a buzzing fly, murmuring my fears back to me—the assessment hasn’t even begun, and I am already exhausted and afraid. For once, however, I feel like this isn't just an exaggeration—it is deeply rooted in identity, knowing, and hope (the last which I’ve sworn to have abandoned long ago) Alas, I can only whisk up a Word document detailing my experience and aligning traits, and wait it out.

2024-09-?

I think few things—when it comes to affection—are more painful than not knowing if your love shows. A child between two parents who fight is expected to pick a side. I just want to make sure my dad knows I love him, in the pure way only daughters can love. He brought me clay today. I was touched.

I feel guilty, but I won’t share this with my mom, I don’t want her to think she did wrong by standing her ground and kicking him out, but I am worried he may be having a bad time. Maybe it's naive of me, maybe he is lying—but I still think there is a chance he might be staying at [REDACTED] and the possibility of him being uncomfortable, or cold, or experiencing something resembling his childhood makes my heart swell with guilt for I too feel at fault. Be treated as an extension of someone for long enough, and your souls morph into one, your shoulders bearing the weight of their wrongdoings.

2024-09-05

I don’t know what’s more heartbreaking: the fact that, at the end, we all cry out for our mothers, or that no matter how much you love and nurture your son, it will always be a daughter looking out for another. At our core, it seems that’s what we are above it all, not mothers but daughters. Who was the first? Lilitu? I wish we could all hug her, for she (whoever she is) was given the burden of being one without ever being the other. Mothers who were not daughters—like a child dying before their parents, tragic.³

2024-09-09

I don’t understand religion or god. ⁴ I’m afraid I never will. What do you believe in when someone suffers for no reason at all? When people are evil, and it goes unpunished? If all of this happens while god sits and watches, he (it, whatever) should be held accountable and face judgment.

I fear I wasn’t built for worship. Quietness while on my knees. I was born for screaming matches and pulls of hair, shoving your face into the mess you’ve made like an unruly dog. Forced accountability because none of us pays. Divine justice is a lie.⁵

2024-09-21

It’s my grandpa’s birthday today. They tell you to ‘celebrate the life they had’ and whatnot—still, I’m bitter, filled with misplaced resentment. I do things robotically on this day. It’s cold and dull. Absence is loud.

2024-10-20

I went to see [REDACTED] after a long time. I had fun, but I felt overwhelmed many times throughout it. Smiling was painful and a practiced affair at times. It stressed me out that she asked about it, but I know she meant well, just like I do when she is the one flooded by gloom.

(...)

My mom and I are already mourning what’s to come. I feel the same, but part of me thinks (knows) I won’t ever be satisfied if I don’t leave, perhaps it's my soul’s call for growth. Our situation is too small to fit us anymore. Maybe that’s the essence of living.

That doesn’t make it any less painful.

2024-10-21

The sky was exceptionally blue today, nature a glorious shade of green, I felt like a kid again, talking to the trees, being answered in sacred wisdom.

Present me here. I know I am breaking some sort of rule by going back into my journals. Honestly? I could not care less. For me, re-reading my entries is a cathartic experience, almost as strong as when I poured my feelings and thoughts out into these pages in the first place. I need to see the depths I’ve pulled myself out of.

Plus, these entries are like my babies. ⁶ not to mention there is a style there, something I want for my stories. I feel like a writer when I journal. I read these as my creations, my work. This is something super blasphemous because everyone is arguing about 'when' one can call themselves a writer (consensus is you can’t, unless you went to Oxford or something and, sometimes, even then you can’t) and, again, I do not give a shit. I’m barely online anyways.