January 29th, Year 20

Wake up. Pretend to be a woman with confidence. Greet the world with a smile held up by the strings of necessity. A front made of plastic. Speak words said a million times over, used until all meaning has been drawn out, expressed of their essence. Small talk for small friends. Get by to get by.

No one expects anything from me anymore. If I do not give it in totality, then they think I am incapable of giving anything at all. Brick by brick, I have built this. I have formed their opinions of me, with blistered hands, and furious performance. I wanted their faith and dependence. I wanted control. I wanted to become a god.

Reason for, reason against, reason tires and leaves.

A small population of people looking up to me, then away from me. A family falling apart for years, never quite crumbling into dust. I direct their movements, and I hate this. That person connected to this person, under protest but steadied by timidity. Me, connected to a man who is my past. Images flashing of his cruelties, his possible infidelities, perhaps all fabricated by my rage. A paranoia is born. I left him behind on paper. It is a fact, but that matters little. Life is in emotion. Life is in what brought out that emotion. All emotion is a lie.

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January 29th, Year 20

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