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Jane Doe


I went through to the city today. I went to a coffee shop, had coffee and cake, then wandered around some shops for a while. The usual piercing loneliness followed me, mercilessly stabbing me like a thousand needles. I went to my concert and was uncomfortably wedged in a seat next to a very large man who apparently had Saint Vitus’ Dance. I wanted to enjoy the concert but my mind kept drifting off into abstraction; fixating on the surreal nightmare of my life and how I am going to survive possibly another 30 years or so of feeling like this. I want to say I hate God, but I am no longer convinced there even is one, and if there is, it isn’t something which can be reasoned with, it is some hostile, impenetrable force which is etheric in nature. It cannot be reasoned with, and is utterly cold and unyielding in the face of human suffering.

There is no meaning to anything.

After the concert, I walked down to Stock-bridge, and bought some books in a charity shop. Then I walked back up to the city centre to get a bus. It is so incredibly difficult to explain the unreal quality life takes on when feeling as alone as I do. It is close to indescribable, and is obviously a direct result of nobody seeing what is really inside, the extreme hurt, pain and suffering, as well as the other stuff, the taboo stuff, such as rage, which society forces people to keep hidden, thus causing it to unpleasantly ferment and stagnate on the inside, like rotten potatoes. If I was to use a word to describe the unreal feeling, it would be ‘terrifying’, because it screams out to me: “YOU DON’T EXIST”. I go about my daily life, and my business, never being heard, or seen emotionally, and it makes me feel less and less real, until my very presence in the world, as a ghost, winding it’s way through the ‘real’ people, appears as an obscene intruder; a mistake.

The unreal feeling does, I think, correspond to a semi-medical label; de-realization, something which my life has become in almost it’s entirety.

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