some of an attention whores private diary (humiliation ritual)

11.13 2025

when i was younger, i used to think hell was a place of conveyer belts, boiling lava cauldrons, and fiery torture. i used to dream and think of such a fate a lot, so i would also find myself praying to god to be saved. i wasn't pious or anything, so it was pretty selfish of me. when i prayed, i would always imagine making a physically spiritual envelope through it, and my guardian angel would pick it up and deliver it to a postage office in heaven. i always figured that jesus would be getting millions of envelopes a day, so there would be a delay in which he would be able to read my letter, and pass my wish to god. because i truly believed this, i would always have my prayers start with "dear jesus" (and sometimes "-and god") and contain some brief moment of understanding for how long it must've taken for him to read my prayer and hope (begging) for my prayer to be granted. it was very transactional, but i prayed like a friend regardless. to me, it says a lot about my relation to the spiritual for me to automatically try to understand it through physical terms; i was quite indifferent about religion as a kid, and as a non-believer now, maybe it's easy for me to let go, because i already don't care too much about the physical.

now that i'm older i usually start my prayers with "dear God".

11.20 2025

i can envision myself in a few years, pacing around the room of my apartment, recording my voice for use in an audiobook.

it would be a good side gig for me, if it wasn't for my grating voice. or, how i think it's grating. the only hinderance i feel about it is that usually audio narrators don't get famous enough to have their apologies widely spread around (and have you ever heard an audiobook start with an apology?).

11.23 2025

reflecting on my laziness/slowness to read and consume, my intense introspective theorisation and internal conclusion making, and fascination and focus on minor details. 

i'm in a slump right now, and have been pretty much all my life (not really, but genetic depression (self-diagnosing. self theorising.) or something of similar affliction haunted me since the young age of seven.), which no doubt has part in this slowness. I've never considered myself a busybodied person, or a perfectionist, or anything too competent. i know I've always preferred work to pure leisure, but what "work" i wanted to do i was picky about (as with most things) and i leis-ed enough, so i figured i was too lazy to consider myself a working type. on top of that, my "non-conformity"—not doing things i didn't see point in doing, resistance to do something blindly, without explanation—hasn't made me a good worker-bee (if you will) either. I've always been at the mercy of my own whims. my own whims... so I've cleared up now that i have quite a strong sense of agency, and i can't imagine i ever didn't; i may be "lazy" or "disorganised" by my own standards and by the dull fist of a depressive mood, but I've also always felt like (or known that) work should be before play. if i follow these rules usually, i was too busy beating myself down to notice. if you take into account that most of my "play time" was my own creative pursuits, that of which i pursued not only to entertain myself, but to reach an end out of (which is to say i always made things to achieve profit of some sort—fame, money, knowledge in some cases—but was always too shy to share them in the end, with how shoddy the product was, or my still present struggle of hating a project halfway and throwing it out of disappointment and intense shame), then i suppose you would have considered me a bit of a busybody.

these combined traits make me an avid reader but a picky person with stubbornness stuck in my bones. as i have been told i'm stubborn, a lot, i have absolutely no doubt or issue calling myself such. a picky person i know i am, since it is the answer to my chronic unsatisfaction. an avid reader i feel, as i read most things, write more things, and consume content for knowledge best through reading and then experimentation. ...what a waste. i have so much i want to read, have set perfectly for me to read, but when i go to read, i either zone out thinking about my own information and creating something "new" (in the way that i have barely finished reading, but i'm piecing things together myself. as if i can read the first few sentences, and my mind shuts off to predict the rest as it would be within my own framework. for fun or out of incompetence, i cannot tell.), or simply never finish it out of pickiness! it is a major character flaw and i don't know how i will fix it. if i can't keep it under control in a year, i might as well get shot in the head out back.

the fascination with minor details is ... quite minor, but it made me mad since i was reflecting on the two above at the time. it's not peculiar or a character flaw though; listening to sound in general—appreciating anything physically sensed, really—i noticed i tend to get hung up on little parts. they're satisfying for me to notice, hear look or feel, and i replay them over and over. the rest of the song is irrelevant, and while nothing depreciates, it just fades for a good while. nothing infuriating, but i replay, and replay, and replay... it's hard to explain my adoration for those little parts as well, for the appreciation is mostly a genuine mental "sensation". my satisfaction is too deep for words, and is probably best physicalised. and this sort of thing, being unable to verbalise or write something, angers me just a bit— since language is my only respite. it just calls to attention quite prominently how bad i am at writing, and that is an insecurity.

12.24 2025

i feel as if i'm drifting in an ocean of everything I've ever adored. i am my own person, but am i? the mental blocking feels like it's coming in again, just a little. i want to be something wholly me. do i like things because they remind me of myself, or do i like things because i want to become them? i suck on the ideals of an idol. i despise idolatry.

12.26 2025

i'm—maybe strangely—pacified by the procedure of loss. isn't it interesting how experience shapes the mind? it's unsettling to me to keep, which is maybe why i feel loveless as well—my obsessive nature wouldn't allow it, but then there's no telling i wouldn't up and leave first, which is no longer true love to me, what i seek. photographs perfectly encompass my outlook on this: i relish memories, and i keep them tucked away, but they will leave me too at some point, and no matter how saddened i am by the loss of a memory's details it will always be right to have let go. but a photo is artificial and needs to be destroyed. i have no issue destroying, but i only destroy to return the item to the righteous way of being- impermanent.

the idea that something should last forever as it originally was is unsettling and i think wrong. i adore archivists, but that's only because they are continuing the life and death cycle. did you know i once picked up a dead bird from a stairwell? i was lost at a college campus trying to find my place, but while i was wandering in circles i found a dead bird being shrugged past as it was laying belly-up on stone. do you understand how cruel that is, to walk past something dead and not honour it? i picked it up because it wasn't even rotting yet, and i carried that dead bird in my palms for a while. my mission changed course to find a suitable burial spot around the campus. i looked insane complaining to it. there were a lot of cats on the grounds and they kept stalking me and the bird on our meander. the best burial of all is one where you're useful to the environment around you; not on stone that can't eat you or in the hands of medical staff (though honourable), but in the belly of the rest of the world. of course as someone who believes so strongly in this cycle i tried to offer the bird to the cats, but the cats didn't come to me easily and i felt bad for insulting the birds corpse like that each time a cat refused it. i let the soil eat it instead.

to disappear is not a great gift, though it sometimes feels like it. to disappear is a God-given right, something that should be remembered. to want to keep is futile and sad. not to all the people I've spoken to who've shown me they truly fear loss, which i find endlessly interesting and pitiful to an extent. to let go is cathartic; I've only wanted to eradicate when i felt distressed, and I've never felt more distressed and honestly disgusted but by the idea of permanence. i can barely imagine having it feel any other way.

Excerpts of a diary; a few entries I thought notable. It's hard to keep completely raw prose and i'll more than likely lose all this sooner or later. ...When I decide to get rid of all my possessions, this stuff would be the second to go (second to a dresser, I dream often of burning my dressers), and to publicize is to sever personal attachments, so better do this sooner than later.