Dear fucking diary,
I haven’t spoken to you in a while, but I’ve thought about you a lot and often.
It’s Tuesday night, pouring rain. Lately I’ve not been able to sleep until 4-5am. The night just flies by, even without much activity to preoccupy me. Remember I used to tell you everything? Ah, those where the days. In most ways, those were the days.
I usually don’t leave the house now, unless it’s for a meeting or mandatory errands. Sometimes it’s 4-5 days without stepping out. It has become the normal. A few other things have also become the new normal, like only having about 2 or 3 people in my life in various degrees of what resembles closeness but not actually. I can’t talk to you anymore as I used to and it’s a shame, because it was a release. Now I can only lie or at least not tell you the truth. Or anything for that matter. Just know that nothing, literally nothing is working out.
I just deleted what I just wrote.
Anger.

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