Post a journal entry

18/11/17

Grey world. Scent of damp earth. Fantastical clouds exhaled by the mountains. Mist caresses the brae of the Kaputar. Mother kangaroo and joey sit on the tree line at the airport. I miss those days of summer there; running the course of the road under a waning sun. See the Sky. See it blur from orange to peach to pink to the shadow of the Earth. Thoughts of the year to come. Dogged strength unbound leads me leg after leg on asperous tar, listening to music I no longer listen to. Days of summer. Purified air brings the scent of myrtle--flowers of my youth reborn in fields of cornsilk white stowed at the base of far-off hills.

>Each entry is like 3 pages long

How the fuck do you fill 3 pages worth of shit daily? I'm lucky if I have even a paragraph of shit to write about each day, and much of it is the same thing

u see this confuses me
this shouldn't be the point of a diary. i know i'm not at liberty to preach about how a person ought to use their diary, i mean, it's a very personal thing so who cares
but if you're trying to vent about life/put your everyday into words, why would u try so hard? like it's dense poetry for intellectuals
nobody's thoughts sound like this off the cuff
it doesn't sound relaxing to write it sounds like it's trying pretty hard

I havent had a journal since i was like 17. Should i post it anyway?

Yeah bud I wanna read it. Get it out there and feel that heart beat

I only write once or twice a week precisely because I don't have something to write about every day

I enjoyed imagine the scenery but the life aspects didn't really reach me.

Personally I find it relaxing, and I do often think like this when I mull over what to write into the journal because, at least to me, it makes remembering those days upon rereads so much more sublime and beautiful than what they actually were. Not to say it's fabricated, because it's not, I just put a flair to it

Any preferred brands of journals for journaling?

don't listen to the haters go moleskine or go home

Unironically pretty good, id read this book

I wish I had your life

As hard as it is for me to write a journal entry in inglish it is to think about what to write.
I've been doing much and not so much. I've been eating delicious things but not things I craved for.
I've spent time with the one I love but not alone with him.
I've been doing what fullfils me but not what's important nor productive.
I've been reading this books of great authors but not quite getting hooked. They make me wanna read more but not read them, they make me wanna write more but not my stories.
Todays was a great day but kind of felt like any other day.

are you me?

That may be

Surprisingly comfy. Do you not work?

>talking about Veeky Forums in your diary

lmao at your life senpai

Lets go:

I woke up hungover. My sinuses were apparently broken from the combination of substances that were inhaled through them the night before, resulting in me coughing directly at the ceiling. I hate that type of coughing, where your back arches up and you can feel your neck contort against itself. I stumbled into the shower, glad to see that it was cockroach free. Upon my departure I saw my bed and was again reminded of the regrettable decisions that had been made just a few hours before. However, the sun was shining through the open window and a cool breeze extended its reach across my flat, and I decided that today would be better spent outside. I worked in my garden, biked to buy groceries from the local organic market down the street, and played some guitar on my stoop. I intentionally had left my evening open for I had made plans previously to sit in a hot tub on top of one of the tallest buildings in the city. Though I would be with sorority girls, drinking shitty beer and probably listening to 21 savage against my will, the warm water and expansive view would make the experience invaluable. However, these plans were cancelled at the last minute. I'm now sitting alone in my flat, a piece of salmon in the oven as I prepare my own "friends-giving". I hid my phone to prevent me from viewing the snapchats and texts of people who were with their friends, eating together and celebrating the last weekend before the holiday. I don't take offense at being alone; in fact, I enjoy it. That being said, as I sit listening to Clair de Lune on repeat, I can't help but feel some longing to be eating with some friends, or drinking shitty beer with some girls. I like being cerebral in my own space, but right now I just want some company.

Thats all folks, just typed out my day as fast as I could without really thinking about it pls no bully

I'm gonna post two journal entries. One from when I was a little kid and one I did 10 years later. I was (and am) a shit writer so be prepared for poorly written text, however I hope some emotion comes through. This is kinda embarrassing, don't really know why I'm doing it.

Entry 1:
>Dear journal, I haven't really written in you a lot. I'm pretty excited since I'm pretty excited since I'm going to watch "wrestlemania". I wonder who's going to win, "The Undertaker" or "Batista". "The Undertaker" is incredible. He's been undefeated at "Wrestlemania" for a decade and 4 years. I sure hope he beats Batista. I was on some pressure last week because of the ISAT test. If I pass I'm going to ask my parents to let me watch another P.P.V. wrestling. event. Maybe I'll watch wrestlemania, royal rumble or The New Years Revolution!!!!! BYE!!!

Entry 2:
>It's been ten years since I've written anything in here. Looking back I wish I had written more. It looks like there were more pages in here but they've all been torn out, not sure why. It feels quite strange to read your old writing, I don't recall ever writing that and when I read it it doesn't feel like me. I have changed quite a bit these past ten years, probably more than I would have liked. Regardless of who I have become now though, it is always fun to go back and revisit that page. There's so much joy there, such simple desires and goals. It feels like I was living in a better reality then. A different person for a different world. I wonder if I'll still be around in another ten years. Will I still have this book? Will I still be me? Will all this writing seem like the unimportant ramblings of a different person off in some other world? I hope I continue to write in this book.

youtube.com/watch?v=l3w2MTXBebg

man lloyd is so bad in that one it's embarrassing

Yeah, I Much Prefer : youtube.com/watch?v=PXBJIZ1NXFU

>waah waah I woke up after doing coke off sorority girls asses and drinking with chads all night I'm so lonely :'(

Nice

Of course not I barely can string two thoughts together and have emotional and family problems out the whazoo.

How are you married then?

I ask myself that all the time too but if I had to be put on the spot like this its because we are pretty much clones and do everything together.

Today my mommy said that if she doesn't talk with the stork to get another baby she is going to make me leave the house. How are you going to ask the stork, I asked mommy, she told me the stork will only talk to her if all her itches are scratched, but when I started itching her pink hole with my peepee I asked where is my baby sister? and she started yelling and told me to stop. What's wrong mommy, I asked, and she wouldn't tell me. Mommy wouldn't kick her special boy out of the house would she?

Soon that bitch at the pharmacy is going to have to go. The way she says, “Next! Come on! Come on!” makes me want to get up, look her dead in the eye and fucking wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.... right up until her windpipe is about to snap in half. Then I'll let go and let her gasp for air just for my amusement. When that wares itself out I'll finish her off with a 360 twist of her old cunty neck. The fluttering sensation I'll feel go down my spine once I see her eyes roll in the back of her head, whilst froffying white foam bubbles up in the corner of her mouth. If I'm lucky enough the whole thing might make me hard. What? What the fuck are you looking at? Oh I guess this is my fault? It always is, right? I'm sick right? Well I guess you better treat me. Perhaps it’s better if I just do it and get it over with. Probably have to blame it on the pills again when they throw my ass in prison. Fucking shit. Why am I at the god damn pharmacy all the fucking time? Maybe if my doctor didn’t give me 40 antidepressants I wouldn’t have to be here so often and contemplate strangling the shit at out of that cunt. I do my fucking part. I go out. I try to be social. None of it fucking works. Why should I have to control my inner impulses? I’ve done all I’ve could. Why don’t they do their fucking job? Give me something that works. Don’t just give me bullshit platitudes for me to complete and pump me full of god damn magic pills when your “advice” doesn’t work. Fuck it, I’ll probably just do my evening walks til she starts running then call it a night.

Th-thanks user!!!!

I've posted some other journal entries in these threads before recently, I can go find some if you like.

Yeah, do it. I sometimes wanna post my 16 year old diary entries but they really are too embarrassing for me to read

I loved this, best in thread imo

>Implying that it's impossible to feel that way
Not that I liked his entry that much but you sound bitter, user.

This post again

(Go on)

I never date an entry

I was standing outside the bank this morning. Minding my own business until I witnessed the most peculiar thing. I noticed a young couple with a stroller, walking. At the opposite end approaching is a middle aged couple, strolling in a wheelchair which could be their mother. An old bold lady with her head held high. Both parties eventually met, the old lady looking lovingly at the baby in the stroller and they all exchanged polite words. Smiles. It felt like forever they were there. But it was quick, nothing has ever made me stop and think long and hard about myself.

For practice

What is peculiar about this?

This is a nice thread. Any tips or help for people wanting to keep a journal?

I'm guessing it's not just what happens in the day, but your observations and thoughts during that day, too - so you can write on a subject that's grabbed you?

>long and hard

jesus you're such a faggot

Just write in it about literally anything and don't hold back

How would the world be with no pleasure, how different would be mans demeanor? What is the meaning of such, would there still be intellectual pleasure? The 'excitedness' about information and complexities or sublime simplicities of aspects and concepts about reality and potential? What is the meaning of feeling, we know, but I am just wondering, how history might play out, how the character of man might be, if there was no function such as dopamine, as if human were literally physically unfeeling robots, to not be able to detect the nuance or wide gap between feeling good, feeling happy, contented, fulfilled, positively, experiencing an explosion of intrigue and entanglement with interesting information, physical and or mental, physiological, and having no intimate detection of extremely qualitative experience in relation to sapieo-physio-intellectum-spirtus consumption of complex interaction of physica-chemico media resulting in some real fantastic phantasm (how much does individuals relation to the varieties of the oftenicity of their awareness of the possibilities and the real possibilities they are not aware of that may have effect if they were, possibilities of what can be defined thus as 'pleasure', 'the pursuit of happiness'. No pleasures of taste, no feeling of sex, or game (?), or sport (?), there would still be everything people do they would do, including these things, and skydiving, and skiing, and snorkeling, even if they could not feel adrenaline, and 'feel' the difference between average general experience of 'pretty much nothing', sitting around seeing nothing interesting, or different, or far from nothing in a positively sensual way, 'feel' it as in inner body and mind 'entanglement' reaching higher rates of intricacy, interaction, speed, smoothness, coherence, (I am merely trying to express attention to the nature and essence of 'feeling' anything at all, noting that it is a particular aspect of being human on earth, and wondering if it were possible for a being to exist without this aspect, and if it could be an intelligent being, how different it might evolve, and view everything we could view and maybe more). (must everything one chooses to do be pleasure? (Obviously there are examples of actual evils one would not want to choose the lesser or greater of) (does pleasure exist, or only different intensities of pain (a semi joke, a goof

2/2
It is necessities first and foremost which shape our lives, and then pleasures, or a battle and race of both. Can happiness, can pleasure, exist without feeling? the pleasure of recognition, if there is no feeling related, but just a novel experienced, a quantitative difference, that event was a 5, that event was a 3, that event was a 0, that event was a 72, even without feeling I recognize happyiness and pleasure because I can understand why that event contained around 72 happy/pleasure/good/desired points.

what percentage of people are actually miserable and why, who and what is at fault, and how difficult would it be to make them otherwise?

something about the relative bearabilty of possibly becoming boring sameness

Is your diary physical or digital guys?

Physical of course, what, you think I'm gonna let the botnet read my thoughts lmao

Monday 30th 14:27

Had a great time. Got MD and felt great all night. Blacked out though and got woken up on Lord Street with my shoes and I pod missing and my front tooth broken in half. No idea what happened.

The guy who woke me up was called Michael. We talked on the steps for a bit then shared a taxi home. He was a steel erector for buildings.

In the morning I woke up to find the ashtray on the floor. Felt scatty so got the fruit smoothie out the fridge. Shook it up and the lid opened and the stuff went everywhere. Still need to clean it up.

Went down to Peters. Got a bag of weed and made another smoothie with blackberries, raspberries, oranges, strawberries and bananas. Well nice. Watched Boyka 4, Bad Boys 1 and he put Bad Boys 2 on but I was knackered so tried getting upstairs without blacking out again.

Need to wash up. Cook the steak. Defrost more chicken. Clean the carpet. Buy more fruit. Phone the dentist. Start Christmas shopping. Do the latest batch of my NVQ but first I'm gonna have a coffee and a cig.

I can hear them fucking again. A cacophony of low, growl-like huffs, soft high pitched moans, and words, blurred, but definitely dirty, spoken with the intensity that one can not find in porn these days. These kinds of moments used to turn me on; hormone steamed teen years, listening to my mother screaming upstairs with another of her man-friends... I am alone, and it feels good in a warm, self-sustaining way. I am alone because i can be alone. These are the sounds of addiction which i'm free of.

jalepeno potato chips and orange juice

She was slender, young and tall,
and pretty in an innocent, unselfconscious way;
Her hair was reddish-brown, long, to her shoulders;
She was uneducated, though intelligent enough;
Her smile was ready and sincere,
and she was both demure and friendly
The last time I saw her
she had one black eye,
and her belly was beginning to bulge
with pregnancy
I looked at her with unconcealed concern
and she smiled into my face
I went to the car
and looked at her through the window,
and she looked back at me

Do you really not know why pages are torn out, or are you merely pretending?

11/18/17
It was another day, like any other day. I went to work as I so often do, spending an hour or so on a bus that does no more than draw me closer to what seem like an irreversible and contemptible fate. I then went o to spend several more hours on my feet as a servant to the diabetic masses of America helping them to clog their arteries with more poison. After getting off work I rode the bus home realizing that I had multiple assignments due for my psychology class. Instead of working on them I just laid in bed and wallowed in my own mediocrity... I don't know why I always am guilty of these moments of self sabotage.

Dear dairary,
Its me OP, I just wanted you to know that I sucked of 53 men to day, all of whom strangers, yet it was not enough to fulfill my cock lust.

Im going to post some cancer on lit pretty soon but I wanted write something down in you to practice for being the great writer that me or no one on lit will ever successfully be

Love John Greene

10-25-2017

The scent of putrefication assaulted my senses immediately after exiting the stairwell. Its source was lying near the bottom of the roadside ditch, a dozen meters or so away from the factory. The maggots clearly made fast work of the rotting carcass. Two days earlier the buck was fresh, warmth still emanated from his flesh. The flies had just begun their infiltration, probing its nostrils, muzzle, and above all, the gaping wound above the right hindquarter. Now scarcely a third of its body mass remained. Tufts of fur were strewn about in the dry grass, indicating that flesh recently stood in its place. Larvae trampled about like a gluttonous herd, pulsating with a rapid yet steady rhythm. The sight was vaguely hallucinatory as the vibrations of a thousands of bodies moved in repugnant unison. Soon there would be nothing left, the swarm having exhausted itself. It is either feast or famine. Then just as they came, the flies will disappear into the earth, only to remerge once the reaper selects his next victim.

In the meantime, countless numbers will perish before they even sprout wings, others will be gobbled up by other insects, arachnids, amphibians, reptiles, and the occasional bird, who in turn will be consumed by some other beast or in time sink into the soil, becoming dust once more. Yet before death cleaves their stalk from the surrounding field, they mill about with blind instinct, in pursuit of life, the drive towards perpetuity. What else then is there - outside of this system that is as beautiful as it is brutal? Man tends to elevate himself above the ugly fray, for he lacks the psychological strength to accept this reality as anything more than an abstraction. At best we trivialize its repercussions with papier-mâché skeletons and glowing pumpkins. In recent centuries we have become so isolated from death, that we no longer concern ourselves with the circle, instead we dream of glittering desert metropolises and panoplies of pleasure. What should we expect by turning back to the soil - won't we find a mountain of rotting flesh and bones? Is it possible that these bones hold the essence of truth?

"Apropos, technology does not contradict the great change. It will lead to the wall of time and it will be intrinsically transformed. Rockets are not destined for alien worlds, their purpose is to shake the old faith, it's hereafter shown wanting....What faith have they, the rockets, destroyed? Perhaps science has provided the final nail in monotheism's coffin? Maybe the fact that said rockets careen into nothingness will ultimately prove that our titanic aspirations have proven to be presumptuous, that this philosophy does not contain the essence of meaning?"

today my dad told me i need to leave the house
im 28 and its been too long he said
i said let me my last pay check two weeks from now and then ill leave
im going to have about 700 dollars and i dont have any friends or family so im just going to ride my bike somewhere

Nah I honestly don't. I must've torn them out to make paper airplanes or something idk, I really would've liked to read them.

Many thanks!

Nevermore

>beg mummy to buy me a typewriter since I can't write highbrow fiction longhand or on a laptop
>she says it's to expensive ($360 second-hand)
>threaten suicide
>she buys it soon after
>now complains every night that my typing it keeping her awake (thin walls)
>reminds me she has to be up early to go to work in the morning
>lose my creative rhythm and go black Cossacks: Back To War for several hours instead

Unfiltered, from roughly 11/2/17

I am beginning to see my own death in liminal consciousness; now on the cusps, it is becoming clearer. A creeping shadow, an umbra of death has terminally gripped my mouth and harshly drags my face and eyes downward. My death weighs on my shoulders and aching back like stone. It is the loss of everything: my friends, the truest and kindest of them I can no longer call friends; my loves, those two beautiful boys, one of which no longer the boy I once loved, a very different person, the boy I stayed up with all night under blankets and played Skyrim with doesn’t exist anymore. And the other is underground, and alone; my joy, once passionate and alive, with a driving love for literature and music, now just tired and exhausted; my spirit is just damp pulp. I am deeply hurt. And profoundly alone. And carrying the death of my former self upon my shoulders in horrible aching pain, struggling miserably. And soon I will die. I will die again. Who I was has died. The parts of me I enjoyed and that enjoyed life are dead. The part that was thrilled to stay up late and read the most challenging literature ever written and eat horribly but with a sheer joy, and stare out my window at rain or snow in a trance of wonder, and seclude myself to only those friends who I loved and took pleasure in communicating with, and build beautiful and rewarding friendships and relationships with those few people with the love in my heart, and stay up late thinking of them and thinking of how beautiful that all was. And those parts are no longer. I go to bed when my body says enough and when my eyes are heavy with depression and tire. I eat falsely representing some nutritional principles. I associate with people I do not like who if I weren’t so desperate for human interaction I would never associate with. I betray myself and my probity to spuriously befit my surroundings socially; an embarrassing and ultimately ineffective display. And despite it I still am very alone. I am a walking, rotting corpse of my former self. The rot permeates into my mind and nothing beautiful remains, just vitriol and a heavily dampened intellect. There is no joy in my life. The love in my heart for the vast beauty of this planet and of art has decayed to a desiccated husk.

This is raw - I believe every word. Though it seems you are some years ahead of me, I fear that this will become my fate as well. While I am still undergoing the early stages, I can feel the beginnings of this desiccation of the soul. Unexpectedly this feel crept up soon after my son was born. Then again, as fathers is there any viable alternative barring abandonment and suicide?

I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, and I can't do anything to change events anyway. I'll just let matters take their course and concentrate on studying and hope that everything will be all right in the end.

Hauntingly beautiful read. Thank you.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing.

Metaphysics. 8 people. Coffee with M and P. Worked on Hume essay all day. Did push-ups,

14 April 1988
Oh – what's the bloody point?

It's surreal how your life can become absolutely unbearable in such a short time span. I'm still sick and every day I think that I will stay like that forever and therefore should kill myself. All the previous life experiences that I had considered horrible seem like nothing now.
If I don't get better before February I'm going to kill myself. I know that I'm ready.
It hurts to read old entries from the time when I was healthy.

I wish there were a way were neets could get together and share their thoughts in the real world instead of online.

Nofap day 2

No real changes. I'm having trouble getting to sleep, I've made a habit of masturbating before bedtime. Porn is a cheaper sleeping aid than alcohol.

September 2017

Options, fears, instability, grinding stress, health decline, addiction and depression. These are the things that continue to inhabit your mind. When did it all go so wrong? Was it some moment in the new year? It kept getting worse. Eyes are tired. Laptop slow. Body is flab. You complain but don’t change. Drugs make you dumber.

You became compliant. Where is this pain coming from? Is it the dying company you clung onto? The relationship that wastes time and effort? The dread of existence.

You just want to be left alone.

A job search reveals you are qualified for better. But you won’t leave yet. Spiral down into flames and see what happens. Why did they hire that guy? Why fucking bother? Why don’t they get real money? Why don’t you. Fleet Complete. An Opportunity. Leave the cocoon.

Fuck the girl. I am not resolving anything. Your feelings shouldn’t have got hurt. Fuck.

Hate is always an option. Catch flys with napalm. Fuck this. Raging into self now. You are not happy where it comes from you can’t see. You can't type it fast enough or clear enough, slippery hands on greasy keys. Motherfucking shit life stuck here in hot room no options every option is available no one to support tell you what to do only self to look back into hazy past and see the mistakes the misses the failures all compiling upwards suffocating the present. Unloaded now unhinged like a sappy commentary on nothing and fragment of a mind state. You say it is cathartic I say it is advanced procrastination. Now for a call and an interlude. I hope this does not distract. I bet it will be a quiet call as we realize the hopelessness of our situation and struggle to maintain the illusion. This is not cosmic scale. This is petty material. We can’t even solve our immediate surroundings. We lack any sort of control. Even the only kind made available.

I want to see clearly again without straining. Wake.

So much anger, it is the grey creeping in. The water you float on. Float no more. You sink through time. So scared of where you will go. A sense of perspective is always helpful. You should not let this moment kill you. Go eat a hamburger. Take a subway trip. Enter a new place. Familiar faces.

I miss you. Happy self. Awed by the universe. At your life. Easy going and uninterested in oneself.