So much has changed. Change so gradual that I barely noticed it. Did catch glimpes that gave me warning signs, but never realized the extent of the change in its entirety while it was happening. There are no words in my head anymore. There is no voice. I have to make these up as I write them. There is no particularly strong feeling for anything or anyone. There isn't innocence. There is calculation and a mild form of deceit. There is dishonesty and guilt. There is the hope that perhaps things will go back to the utopian way they were in my head not so long ago. And the hope that I won't have to make that happen, just wait for it to. There are many more placebos now, more diversions. They narrow my vision, shorten its range. There are remnants of feelings, and beginnings. The mind works in predictable ways, but like the grieving want to wallow in their misery for as long as they possibly can, so do I let my mind wreak its havoc and play games with me. And affect lives other than mine.

I don't feel very alive.