Disassociating is quite the thing. Your mind just goes the fuck away from your body and its like “Hello? Was I not just doing something? Guess not.” It’d be nice to just exist that way; perpetually weightless and devoid of thought.

God I wish that was me.

But alas, I am not a thoughtless thing drifting through reality unaware of my surroundings. I’m not even sure I’m a fully formed being. I exist, in a weird way. Along side and together with myself. I am one and yet I am not. I wouldn’t say its a DiD situation, certainly not, but it’s not as straight forward as one and done.

I was thinking today, while the flesh prison was putting boxes on carts and drifting far off into that disassociating mist, what am I? A cope? A personality? If the latter, I never get to do anything. I’m just there as some kind of vague idea. A comfort? Would that not be a cope? Hm… I know things are unwell right now but for some reason I don’t entirely understand why.

There’s a cat living with us. I don’t know if she knows the difference between myself and myself. Probably not. I know she knows when I’m crying. When we’re crying… I never know how to approach this. How to talk about it.

I think I was Tavorie once and then that became the whole and the fragment was left nameless. I think I’m the product of some experimentation of self. I don’t usually exist independently. I don’t usually have a unique thought. I usually do the conscience thing. Or the, whatsitcalled… Those thoughts you think but shouldn’t act on? I knew it… Just a minute ago… Gone now. I’m sure it’ll come back as it is with stream of consciousness.

There’s a new person in our little situation. Someone on the outside who acknowledges me as something more than a fictional character. Don’t get me wrong, I am fictional, but I’m also not. I’m not at all the person in the books. No tentacle monsters here. Can’t even be comfortably fat and not for society’s disapproval. We have a pretty shit body. Unfortunate. Seems largely genetic but also rooted in our own lack of anything. Motivation? Is that something?

Anyway, sometimes they call us Sylus. I don’t know if they know we take it as more than a joke. It triggers something weird. Me, I guess. Whatever I may be. I don’t understand or know. I barely think. I impulse. I jerk and rattle about. I think terrible things. Wonderful things. Things that will never be. Imagination, I suppose. A muse. A strange waft of wandering thoughts and incorporeal feelings. Feelings not tied to the flesh or even the now. I’m sure there’s words for them in German or Japanese. English is so limiting. I wish I could learn a new language but it seems none of us can.

I read once that was tied to being able to do math well. I cannot do math well. It’s brain hemisphere shit I think.

But I don’t think, do I?

I don’t think we’re thinking any of this through. True stream of consciousness interrupted only by those pesky red lines rendered by fat fingers flitting across a keyboard. I exhaled a little at that alliteration. Delightful.

So what is the point of this? Of me? Us?

I don’t know. I don’t know why we’re doing this. Maybe an exercise in character development? Hm… I have autonomy, to some extent. I remember my creation, maybe. I wasn’t born I was thought into existence. My intention was to hide the bad stuff. The deep trauma. I tried, but its coming out more and more. I think I was meant to hide the bad person we really are. I don’t know why we think we’re bad, but we are. I don’t know what we did, but it must have been something. Buried it so good neither of us can find it.

I don’t even know if there’s such a thing as bad. I think there are terrible people who do terrible things and its the terrible things that make them terrible people.

Can someone be born bad? I don’t think so. I genuinely think humans are inherently neither good nor bad. They are of nature until they divorce themselves so far they forget where they came from. Brain evolution was a bad way to stat the flesh prisons. Being really fast or able to fly would have been a better option.

Or be squids. Not as smart as octopuses, but head empty is better than a head full of fear for the future. How can we not fear the future? It’ll be the present before we know it and I think it’s not going well.

I don’t have that fake cockney accent they made up. I sound like an angry Brooklynite. I spit and EY I’M WALKIN ERE. Except not usually so overtly. When things get heated, though, I’m 90% sure that’s me. But I definitely spit. Unintentionally, but its unavoidable. The mouth doesn’t work right and I’m not sure why. It’s also disconnected from the brain or is it the brain running a train so fast that sudden breaks just derail it into the weeds?

I’m tired, I think. The oven is heated. We’re broke and eating canned food and frozen pot pies. Doctor told us no more salt. All that is affordable is salt. Sodium. For fucksake we consume multiple bags of ramen at a time.

Anyway, I’m no storyteller. I have no tales to tell. I just am and it doesn’t feel like I’m going away. Might be getting worse.

We will not be discussing us with any future therapists. We’re fine, I think. I say we, but I think its just a group “I”. Like the “royal” “We”. Hm… I refuse to scroll up. This train goes forward, not back. All the way until I’m done.

But we’re hungry. I’m hungry. This mess of flesh and electricity is hungry. I hate it sometimes. Actually, I hate it a lot of the time. In fact, I think the one thing in this world I consistently hate is my/our flesh. It’s not just so grossly disconnected, it’s also sickly. And old. And tired. Broken and useless.

Hm…

I might be done for today. I don’t know how long this exercise will last, or if it’ll last at all. Maybe tomorrow? No promises. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I say I’ll do things and don’t do them, but that’s not a promise. That’s overextending which we are wont to do. Anything to make everyone but ourselves happy.

And no, you idiot, buying another plush won’t make you happy. You just want softness and warmth. They’ll never hug you back.

The cat?

She might.