Public Confession (Restricted)
Logbook of Insanity No. 16 — Entry: Night
Tone: Unquiet · Voice: First Person
Grand and hollow, the words came again—those perfumed encouragements, dressed in light, dripping with pomp and void. Well-intentioned, yes, but useless, unbearably so. I felt that old urge rise, that impulse to retreat into some forgotten corridor of myself where no voice could follow.
I am restless. Tired in a way that no sleep will ever fix. Starved for a freedom that never arrives, a hunger that turns to sickness, and the sickness, to anger. There are days when I crave indifference the way others crave touch. I couldn’t laugh, not even if I tried; laughter feels like a language that no longer belongs to me.
The words that come are sharp now, feverish kindnesses that sting more than they soothe. There’s a wish in me, growing, twisting like smoke—just to coil into myself, to vanish quietly into my own silence.
Tonight, I sat through the endless speech again, the sermon of the living righteous. I listened because I had to, not because I believed there was an end to it. It stretched and stretched, and I wondered if boredom would kill me before rage did. It always ends the same way—with an accusation, or the soft threat of hell.
“A difficult work,” he said, as if difficulty sanctified cruelty. “From now on, it will no longer be you who lives, but I who live in you.” His voice carried the weight of eternity, and I felt myself thinning beneath it, dissolving into something half spirit, half refusal.
And yet, today I thought—we are becoming more and more ourselves, which is to say, less and less human. Eternity must be insanity, not the madness that bursts, but the kind that stretches forever, unraveling memories until nothing remains but the echo of what once mattered.
The one I once called a psychopath looked at me today, and for a fleeting second, I believed he was the kindest of all among the chaos. Perhaps precisely because he was what I feared to name. He never lied about the fracture inside him; he wore it like an amulet. Maybe that’s what kindness really is—clarity, even if it terrifies.
The night is long. I hear voices even when I’m alone. Maybe it’s the echo of the speech, maybe it’s him, still reciting his scriptures inside my head. I don’t know where his words end and mine begin anymore.
I’ve written all this because the silence between thoughts has become unbearable. If someone ever finds these lines, let them know: it was never about guilt, only about the unbearable weight of being seen too clearly.
— Preserved as requested.
Signature: R.
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