June 17, 2020:

There were journals then but they say nothing.

The processing was not real-time. It was only much later I sussed the origin of my unhappiness, and eventually despair. Even to myself I was unable to talk about it as it was happening.

But then I know perfectly well memories are unreal. Memories are constructed. By mulling and considering and shaping something with structure when the raw material is wet spongy earth with seeds. Where what you've shaped is that worst of all possible narratives, a story, and oh fuck you for being so trivial and so trite. Fuck you to death and hell and back.

"I am a memory come alive." No! All memories are false, and I am anything but alive.