Feels strange. To read words I wrote as a child. To look at the pictures I drew.
Affirming in a way. That this person I am now isn't a recent construct. That even when I was young there were things, grown up things, that plagued me. Traversed my thoughts. My schoolwork. I can watch as the report cards and test scores decline from the highest place. Down, down. As this well of feeling begins to swallow me up. Isolate me. Comfort me. Always alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts always move towards this wholly dark entropy. My singularity. I can never escape. Until there is only one thought. One desire. One need. To see red trickle from my skin. Emptying. To confirm that I'm still here and to toy with the idea of disappearing altogether.