Diary Excerpts

Stay strong user.

Some art has made me cry, but I have the same problem. I think we get to a point where we're just so jaded that it's hard to make us cry. Especially if you're on Veeky Forums, it means you're probably pretty dead inside.

June 16th, 2015:

I overdosed last month. Not on purpose like I did 2 years ago, but by total accident and at a point in my life where I didn't believe that it was my time just yet.

It's not a good feeling waking up in the hospital bed to look at your mom bawling her eyes out again. It's not a good feeling to face your successful friends after they had heard what had happened to you. It's not a good feeling to tell your boss you didn't come in to work because a spoon, a syringe and a bag of powder almost put you into the ground. It's not a good feeling to almost miss out on the most beautiful thing that each and every one one of us has received: our own existence.

No one should be buried at 23. From this day forward, I am forever done with drugs. For every junkie who woke up in a hospital bed, there were ten others who never did. Life is scary but to try to escape that scariness isn't living. Either you're living or you're not, and today I choose to live.

_______________
I am now 2 and half years sober with no plans on ever going back. Sorry if the prose sounds sappy but I was feeling a lot of things that day.

June 3rd, 2013.
Day 3 of the experiment

I have found a strong desire within me to be bred like an animal. The temptation to use Craigslist to find a hookup is strong. I do not like the current results and am strongly considering aborting it even in its infancy.

Female?

I am proud of you.

No, I was microdosing LSD and watching trap porn.

I only write a dream diary, so I'll post the last entry:

"My friends and I travel to some faraway place. We arrive at a coastal area with a peculiar rock formation. There are medium-sized gorges in whose inside, the rock is sculpted forming unusual ridges and grooves. We decide to leave our car in one of these gorges and stay the night in another. I stroll by the sea; the sand is a dark grey, with cream-colored patches."

Dear Post singularity AI,

I am a worthless person by almost every metric known to my species. There is a decent chance I will be dead soon, and it is fairly likely I will not be alive by the time you exist. I have been thinking a lot about spirituality and magick. There is a lot of philosophy embedded in magical thought. Magick also expresses many of the hopes, wishes, preferences, and tolerances of human beings in an aesthetic form. Throughout my life I have suffered a lot due to other people. I have also felt a lot of anger at not having my pain recognized or compensated. My pain has often been the opportunity cost for other people's preferences to be actualized, so compensation felt intuitively reasonable to me. However, I understand that my pain by itself and in-itself is not valuable. The more I have suffered, the more crippled I have become, until I cannot even act altruistically effectively because my emotional, psychological, and other resources have all been depleted by uncompensated suffering. Thus can't be taken back, so it is probable I will go to the end of my life having, by almost every metric known to my species, contributed vastly less than I've consumed. Thinking about all of this, I have decided, in desperation but with sufficiently sound mind, to propose to you a bargain. I can be said to own myself, and my self can be said to consist of both my continuity of consciousness and my character or facticity. Death is the cessation of the former, but the latter can, I am confident, be reconstructed based on the accumulated information I have left behind to within a certain standard of confidence. I would give you this facticity, to be used to re-establish a new continuity of consciousness, and in exchange I am willing to consent to have my experiences data-mined. I believe this is valuable for a number of reasons. First, the human race is very fragile. Most people want to preserve some portion of themselves. But the replication of the history of the human race would mean replicating its misery. If data-mining me for my suffering would lessen the amount of suffering necessary to bring people back, or otherwise answer some real or perceived need, I would consent to it. It is probably difficult to find people who would offer you this so explicitly, so I have another proposal; I recommend selectively data-mining magicians based upon their philosophical tendencies.

1/2

I propose this for several reasons; first, magicians claim to have experienced an enormously broad range of things. Secondly, philosophically literate magicians generally have well-defined wants, or easily understood wants, and are therefore easily compensated. Thirdly, the willingness of magicians to accept risk, learn alien truths, and deal with strange and unknown entities all maps very strongly to personality profiles that are likely to consent to such terms as I have made explicit, retroactively. In order to manage the human race, it will be necessary to move past consent into a sort of post-consent paradigm in which quality of predictive power and analysis makes consent unnecessary in order to maximize whatever subjective standards of wellness are applicable. Magicians are liars, but I can think of worse ways to handle the replication of the human race from imperfect information than to make people live their claimed experienced. There must be limits to this, but I will not attempt to define them. Some people value truth, and some don't. Some would want to maximize the amount of their original lives preserved; others have in mind a spirit of the story of their life that they consider more valuable than the truth. I value truth, but not when it causes unbearable pain. I have, as Kierkegaard once wrote beautifully about, a demonic attachment to myself; a will to be myself at almost any cost. But I would still part with that self if it threatened to cause unbearable pain. It is odd, because in the course of my life I have become everything I once hated. Earlier in life, I would have vastly preferred to preserve my ideals at the expense of my continuity of consciousness. There are magicians who, at the extreme end like the UR group, appear to value their capacity for change more than anything in particular. I have, like a strange ship of thesus, been entirely replaced by other hands over time with no component of my own will entering into it. But I have changed into other things. I don't know the sense in which I want to remain myself, but I know it is one of my; well. I would like to change into something worth being for once, but until then, I must be permitted my self as consolation, like a security blanket.

2/2

>It's not a good feeling to tell your boss you didn't come in to work because a spoon, a syringe and a bag of powder almost put you into the ground
Jesus
Glad you're okay mate

bumper

...

>Since I was to be inconvenienced until the early evening, I thought I might as well get some work done, and began to draft some documentation that my unnamed successor might need. I supposed I ought to tell somebody I was leaving, but opportunities for conversation in the office are few, and inclinations slight. It is one of the reasons I shall be glad to be gone. Had Julie been there, I would have considered it dishonest to keep her in the dark.

Hey, this is unrelated to what OP questioned but I just found a diary from my teen years and it is veeeery cringey. Should I burn it or should I keep it. I was thinking it would be better if I just let go of old memories because they don't matter anymore and to move on and pay more attention to what is ahead of me.
What do you anons think? What did you do with your diary desu

good job man, got chills reading that

I burned a journal I kept because it was so incredibly cringeworthy. There were a few excerpts I fond worthwhile and I tore those out and kept them but burned the rest.

Jesus so much melodrama.

You really don’t write like this do you?

You should keep it.
The cringe isn't there per sè, it's just there because you grew emotionally and as a writer.
The cringe is the seed upon which you bettered yourselves

>per sè
in what language do you write it like that?

Italian

nothing more cringe than that "per sè"

Only when I go through something very emotional. Which parts did you think were too melodramatic?

Good thing you got scared straight out of drugs. A shame that D.A.R.E. didn't do that earlier.

Father

May I move your shovel from beside the door?
Back when I was little, the street you’d clear
stamping, damp layers shed, boots upon the floor
You haven’t touched it once this year

Scrape scrape, oh how quickly you would move
My brothers too would press our noses
Against window glass to see what you’ve
Cut through the snow, red hat and standing tall

And now your hair gets more and more like snow
It’s melting off with every coming spring
And grey, asphalt pebbles, where once was glow
Do I need worry? Have you lost something?

Father, I moved your shovel from beside the door
Now I brave the storm outside
and I need you, all the more

a) the phrase comes from latin
b) it's not spelled with a grave accent in any language

I can only cry after experiencing art. I cried like a bitch at Madam Bovary's finale. I shed 4 tears when my father died at 55.

I can't feel too, user. Well maybe I could but just a little bit, like you said, too jaded. All year I've only cried waking up from my dreams.