Run Away

I've plotted my escape.

I'm going to Des Moines, Iowa. I'll be there twenty days, the whole trip is going to be twenty-four days. I was going to buy a bike, but it'll be pointless to bring a bike where it'll snow.

For hours last night and all morning today my mind was trying to talk me out of it. Saying that I should save up for a car instead and I would be able to stop whenever I want to instead of the five minute smoke break the train gives every two hours.

Both people I've contacted in Iowa thought I was nuts that I wanted to run away from California to Iowa, but I've passed by it before and I remember how miserable and lonely it looked. I didn't have enough time to enjoy it, so I'm going back and staying for two and a half weeks.

Burnt

I did not look up from the paper until there was a light rapping on the front door. I became suddenly enraged because it had disturbed my peace and wrecked a straight line I was drawing. The person standing behind the door (and many other people who knock on doors) has an annoying tendency to knock again because they think I didn't hear them. As I rushed and made my hand to unlock the door, he knocked again. I opened the door and told him it was inhumanly possible for me to open the door in two seconds. He just frowned at me like I was some grumpy old man.

When you draw for eight hours straight because time doesn't exist in many realms, including drawing, you start to mess up a lot, your body and mind will feel as if you haven't slept in days. A sudden interruption will shove you into a pit of rage and there is nothing you can do about it. Then when you are rushing to open the door before the person standing outside decides two seconds is too long to wait and knocks again, your cup of lovely orange juice is kicked over and you can't help but scream.

Cursed Until The End

The alarm rang and got louder and more violent with every passing second. I wanted to scream and wake up from this nightmare but I can't, I'm already awake.
Stubbornness swallows me whole. I don't want to be here, at this moment I am completely convinced that Earth is part of some sub-sub-sub-lower class of Hell.
Leave me alone.
I don't want to see the world today. I don't want to deal with temperature. I don't want to look at other people and I don't want them to look at me. I don't care if the look is good or bad, it is and will always be extremely uncomfortable to me,. Twenty years on this speck of which we call Earth, our home, I will never get used to it and I will never call this place home.

Insanity

I just keep seeing people get shot or blown to pieces...

People Were Never Taught How To Listen

It fills me with rage and violence when people don't believe what I say. How could people be so closed-minded? They can't just stop and think for a second that what I am saying might be true? It will always be what they think, and what they think will always be right no matter what. They won't stand for reasoning, they will pretend to listen, goddamn them.

The Executor Kills His Own God

I had a vicious and vivid dream about an executor being forced to kill his own god. He was being forced to do this by a group of men who crowded him in a small room under the main building. It was grimy. This took place when it was custom to wear hats. There were no fancy clothing so it was probably early 1900's. The executor tied the hands of his god, his wrists bled.

"I'm sorry," The executor cried to his god.

His god nodded.

"I'm sorry too," His god smiled sadly at him.

When One Thing Is Fixed, Another Problem Shows It's Ugly Face.

I noticed that the back of my right hand, the one that often gives off the scent of rotting flesh. It's almost heeled from whatever it was possessed with, now it's purple from poor circulation and the skin is ripped, threatening to bleed.

Due to the bright cloudy sunlight, the purple is not visible, but I'm telling you, it's there.

Creation

3:44PM
I don't know how long it has been, but I've been sitting here drawing bunny comics and thinking about how Lionel just completely misunderstands me. I don't know what or how the hell he sees and thinks that I am a "gleeful" person. I'm not. I'm grateful and I was happy to be there with him, but I am just like everybody else, frustrated, angry and depressed. Just because I wasn't frowning every second of the day like someone who has a black and white perception or because I wasn't someone who could only think of why things are bad, doesn't mean I don't understand it. If someone truly thinks that there is more bad than good, and they have every reason to believe that, it doesn't mean they're right, but it doesn't mean they're wrong either. Even fucking bimbo girls get depressed at least once a month. It is completely unrealistic to think that someone has never experienced depression. No, don't even say it, I know there is a big fucking difference between depression and sadness.
My entire fucking life has been rough. There was a time where I cried non-stop for hours a day. Not because I was self-pitying myself, not because I didn't get what I wanted, not because I didn't get enough attention, but because I was blamed for things I didn't do. Because no one ever listened. Because I was called a liar when I wasn't. Because no one ever believed me. No one helped me and I was alone. I was alone my entire life. Do you understand how traumatizing it is to a kid who is still learning about life, to be blamed, falsely accused and laughed at? Do you know what that does to a kid? It makes the kid feel worthless. It makes them feel helpless and it makes them want to leave and never come back. Do you know what that does to a person who is still experiencing that?
How the fuck can someone assume with such confidence that a person whom they've just met, has never experienced depression? How the fuck can you do that? He apologized, yes, but he still thinks I don't understand. I know this because I showed a little bit of sadness on the Tuesday that I had to leave, and he snapped and said to me, "it's not like you're dying". What, is it suddenly not normal for someone to be a little fucking sad that they're leaving?
Unlike him, my life didn't get fucked up in high school, it got fucked up the day my dad threw the vase at my mother and it shattered across the floor. Dirt, water and black ceramic pieces everywhere. Sounds of struggle, loud slapping sounds, sounds of things getting pushed and falling to the ground, the sound of clothing and meat, suddenly the phone flew, hit the washing machine and broke apart. My mother screamed, more sounds of my dad hitting her, she cried. She got away and ran to the room, slamming the door shut. She cried loudly. I remember it all, I remember it all so clearly because I hated myself that moment. I was having a heartburn for the first time in my life. I had just turned seven last month. I couldn't go break up the fight by showing up in the kitchen and just standing there, getting in the way. I've done it before. it works because your parents, no matter how in rage they are, they're not going to be as vicious if you're watching.
From that moment, everything went downhill. We moved constantly and I watched my mother go through all of it, and I couldn't do anything because I was too little. No one wants to listen to a little kid, they don't understand, right? I understood everything. I wanted to help. I wanted to get rid of all the problems, I wanted things to be good again. There was money issues. I wanted to help. I couldn't because no one wants to hire a kid. No one wants to hire a girl for labor work. No one wants to listen. I never gave up.
Forth grade was hell. As usual, I am the youngest in the class. I was one of the top students of the school, no, not class, I said school. I was fast, I was strong and I was good at everything. Then I had to transfer schools because of the divorce. I wasn't in school for months. Then, suddenly I was the new kid. I didn't understand the lesson, I was behind, way behind. I didn't understand anything, I didn't learn about this stuff yet. I was a pro at getting C's and F's sometimes B's, but that made no difference. I was a failure. I was stupid. I was ugly and no one wanted to hang out with me except the other weird, ugly or stupid kids. I finished the grade there and moved to another school. 5th grade, everyone was the new kid because it was a new school year. I was top of the class again, I out-figured math problems and found two or three different ways to solve it before most kids even figured out how to solve the problem by the way of the book. I was top student of the school again. I was also one of the three only Asian in the school, the rest was Mexican, and only Mexican. My mother's friend whom we were living with laughed at me because I said something wrong in Vietnamese. I think it was a grammar issue, they both laughed at me and repeated my mistake. I didn't react. I didn't say anything. I went to my room, I closed the door, and then I cried. I said I was never going to speak Vietnamese ever again. So I didn't. They thought I was playing a game, so they wanted to see how long I could keep it up... Then after a couple months, they got annoyed that I only spoke English, they lectured me, they yelled at me. I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel bad. I didn't think I made a mistake so I didn't apologize and I didn't change my ways. I'm still not speaking the language and I still refuse to.
During the summer, right before 6th grade started for middle school, my uncle took me to get a haircut from some woman-friend of his. Two inches somehow ended up being ten inches. I was confused. I thought I was just getting a trim. My hair was cut to my ears when it was down passed my shoulders. Maybe it was the hair style, this will look okay. She was done. I looked horrible. I wanted to scream. She sprayed some shit on my hair and I had enough, how much more is she going to fuck it up? I got home and looked in the mirror again and again and again. Why the hell was it orange?!
I went to school. I wore a skirt. I got questioning looks. People whispered to each other, is that a boy or a girl? People stared. I tensed. I pushed through. Then... Eventually I got sick of seeing people's faces, the floor was more interesting. I stared at the floor the entire school year. Everyone thought I was weird. My name was Joey. I skateboarded, I played basketball, I skated home, I biked home, I roller-bladed home. I wore a black hat to cover my hair, but it made no different. I adopted the posture of a boy. I dressed like a boy. My self esteem was gone, which effected my grades, which affected how my mother saw me, which affected how I saw myself. I started to give up. I stilled tried hard on my grades, I still tried hard to be the best, but I wasn't the best anymore. 7th grade... I was constantly late for school, I hung out with other skaters, I broke into other peoples houses just because I wanted to see if I could, I picked fights, I stole from stores, I got into arguments. I hung out with a guy who lives out of his car with his girlfriend and he smokes. I refused, but... One day my mother ignored me, she ignored my existence, because I did something wrong... Or maybe I didn't even do anything! She does that a lot, just one day I would come home and she would pretend I was never born and I wasn't standing there talking to her. I slammed the door, I made noises, I made a mess and I broke things. I did all of this because I was angry. I wanted her to yell at me and tell me what I did wrong. That would be so less painful than to just ignore my existence completely as if I wasn't ever born. I took the offer of smoking. I was twelve. And I drank beer... And I smoked a lot. I wanted to damage myself because I wanted to see how far I could push myself, I wanted to see how bad I could go and I wanted my mother to notice what was happening to me, I wanted her to notice what she was doing to me. I ended up being reported to the counselor and ended up in a mental hospital for being suicidal.
My mother was finally worried, she was worried because she didn't fully understand why I was at the hospital or what they were doing to me there. She just knows that I was trying to kill myself.
At the mental hospital, I was quiet, I polite, and I didn't socialize because I was twelve and everyone else was four to eight years old. They thought it was weird, so they kept me longer. I started to get frustrated. I didn't want to be here in this place taking medicine because there was nothing wrong with me. I have every reason to act the way I am but apparently it's not normal to be depressed. Then... I got a roommate. She was obnoxious, she went through my writings, she laid on my bed and she messed up my stuff. I asked her politely to not touch my stuff, she ignored me, I repeated myself over and over until I was screaming at her and I had my hand on her head, pushing her face into my bed as hard as I could. I wanted to break her nose, I wanted to bruise her face and I wanted her to fucking scream for help. She didn't, all she did was laugh. The fifteen minute check in nurse came and saw this, she called people and they came to pull me off of her, they pried my hands off her neck and I scratched her, digging my nails as deep as I could into her neck before they pulled me into the quiet room, I wanted her to go to the emergency room.
I hated this place. I hated the other patients, I hated the doctors, I hated the social worker, I hated the pills and I hated the meetings. I wanted to go home. I constantly reminded them that I wasn't crazy and that I shouldn't be here, that it was a mistake. I screamed and I cried but they only kept me longer.
A couple months after I got discharged, I attempted a couple times to kill my mother. I didn't do anything, but I spoke freely to my counselor, telling her that I often go to the kitchen, take out the knife in the drawer and stare at it, and then put it back. I told her things I wanted to do to a lot of people, and I told her the names and what they looked like and how they treated me. I trusted her. Then she sent me to the mental hospital. When I got there, the staffs were saying "you're back!" I didn't care about being here this time. I was strangely peaceful.
Then... A couple months after getting discharged from this place, I got sent there again. This time, I did it on purpose. I wanted to go back there. I loved it there. It felt right. It felt like home. I told the counselor I wanted to kill myself and I couldn't stop thinking about it and I would do it today when I get home. The ambulance came right away to take me away.
I was expelled from school in the first few months of 8th grade, because someone said I was on drugs and I was high on cocaine. Hours of sitting around a cop showed up and took my pulse. It was fast, but it was because I have an irregular heartbeat and I was nervous about going to jail. He didn't take me to jail, he said he didn't want me to go there and I was too nice. The principle who hated me for some reason expelled me.
I wasn't in school for months again. I went into independent studies school for high schoolers for two or three months and then they said something about my records and that I couldn't go there anymore, and I should come back when I'm in high school.
9th grade... As soon as I stepped onto the campus, I went straight for the office to transfer out. I didn't even go to my first high school class, I went straight for the office because I already know that it's not going to be any different than middle school. It's set up the same way, people are pretty much the same except they look older. The people in the office ignored me, they made me stand around for hours, they made me come back later, they sent me to people that didn't help and they made me wait some more. I couldn't speak to the principle because they wouldn't let me, instead they kept sending me to the mental health counselor and some fat lady who screams at children and suspends them. She told me I wasn't smart enough for independent studies and I kept showing up, bothering her, showing her my grades. I kept showing up at her office so much she threatened to send me back a grade because I wasn't even old enough to be in high school. I stopped coming everyday and came only once a week to the office (not to her office)... And then once every few weeks. I wanted to speak to someone who can get me out of this hell hole.
10th grade, a couple months after school started, there was a new principle. I wrote a ten page essay on why I don't want to be here and why I wanted to be transferred to independent studies and what the teachers were doing (I mean WEREN'T!) and I barely learning anything in this school. He sent me out. He sent me to a part-time high school and part-time college. I didn't get along with two of the teachers, there was an English teacher that wasn't good at English and a math teacher that was better at bragging and judging kids than he was at teacher. I got sick of that place and asked to be transferred to independent studies.
Months without school again... I'm definitely falling way behind. I went out of my way to go to that independent studies school again, and when I got there, it turned into a daycare center. They told me they relocated to downtown two years ago. Stunned. Frustrated. Angry. I just spent half the day to get here!
I lived with my cousin now. My cousin's dad stole money from my piggy bank when I was five, he took a lot, my mother had hundred dollar bills in there and he took it, telling me that it was his and it belonged to him because I stole from him and he's just taking what belongs to him because it's only fair that way. I stayed in the room the entire day, I come out only in the morning and late at night when no one is around. Somehow... I still managed to get blamed for things even though I don't even show my face in daylight. I slept on the hard cold floor mold filled room. I spent my time alone, crying, lost in my thoughts for hours. There wasn't a day I didn't cry for at least an hour without stopping.
Six months into being insulted, laughed at, being disappointed and being a disappointment, weight loss, hair falling out, blacking out, many MANY nights where I can't sleep no matter how tired I was, and ritual uncontrollable crying. During this time I went from 109 lbs to 87 lbs in less than a month. I did psychedelic mushrooms for the first time and died. People don't think it's a big deal to hallucinate a death, but I am a mental being, not a physical. As this is probably more vivid to me than anyone who has experienced death and came back, because I actually remember, I saw what happened to my body, I felt it being sown back together, I saw the other half of me on the other side of the road, I saw the reactions of my death, I felt the coldness of losing life, nothing could warm me. I lost vision, I felt the slippery stickiness of the blood, I saw the walls and floor covered in trails of blood and I saw what I did to people. I saw my mother crying. I saw the hospital, I heard the machines beep, I saw the nurses, I saw the doctors, I heard people rustling around. I think I have had a fuller death experience than most people, because I was traumatized by it for months, it was very lucid, very real, and when I was done being traumatized, I learned a lot and I wasn't scared of being dead anymore, because it's not the end.

Possession

3:00AM
I heard it... I heard the music that all the great composers heard in their minds and dreams. It was amazing and I never wanted it to stop and there was no end to it. It began without a beginning, it was like the beginning was invisible. I could focus in on any part and that layer of the music would come clearly into focus. There were so many layers, not overwhelming, but there was enough that... Well, that's why orchestras can be so vast. I was just in my room, just enjoying myself, being peaceful because I didn't realize I had projected because I usually always end up in some demented place when I project. I didn't realize I was projecting until I heard the music. I wasn't sitting, I wasn't standing either, I was laying down, just right above my body, hovering. Which is highly usually for me, I'm usually formless and hovering ungracefully somewhere or I am in my human form (typically with clothes on).

Astral projection... Something was at my feet, hovering. When I took notice and gave it more attention by trying to see what it looked like and it's size and shape, it gained weight very quickly and pushed down at my feet, making me immobile. I knew it was a man, I saw faint shapes and shadows that made up a head and shoulders, but that's it, the rest is dark shadows and invisible. I tried to wake myself up, it quickly took over my legs and stomach and pushed my chest down. I came out... But... I was already projecting...

I carried a my black messenger bag. (it was a fusion of my swiss army medical bag -for look- and my camera bag -for space-). I snuck through a building through a horribly small window that was only big enough for my head and shoulders to squeeze through. Somehow I managed (I've been going through tons of windows this year). From entering that window, there was two feet gap to another window that was similar to the one I just opened. Below was the floor, there was some really expensive rug down there. I was very high up, about five business building levels up. I got what I needed from inside the building and went back to the window. My bag was too filled so I had to create enough room to squeeze it through the window. I took out a book and placed it at the little space it had behind the window which had a little space (about two and a half inches to put the spine in place without it flipping and falling to the floor below). I was going to take out more stuff but realized that I didn't need to, I closed up the bag and was going to go through, but someone was coming. I causally walked to the restroom because it was the closet room to me that people wouldn't be suspicious that I had entered. The restroom had three windows (two feet wide, one feet in height). One across from the other and another on the same wall as the door but opposite side. I took the chance to use the toliet. While I was using it a white rat that looks like Ritzu, but a smarter, more graceful rat with survival skills (or tricks) came through the window before the toilet. This window was covered with some piece of white painted wood and thick and thin wires came through it so there is no opening for the window except if you can squeeze through a two inch tight space. I watched it. It was coming my way and I slowly got off the toilet and moved out of the way. I moved slowly because I didn't want to scare it because I was curious to see what it was doing and where it was going to go. It squeaked and made a leap. It jumped on some thick wires that hung midway between the floor and ceiling. It made it's way to the other window and knocked over the fan that was at the window. Michael Myers stood at a truck, his back facing me. Yes, he's erotic as hell, but if he'll kill me. I turned and quickly opened the third window opposite of the door and pushed myself out. I knew that when he turns around, he is going to notice the open window and he'll be after me. He'll figure out where I am, I know it. I don't have time to cover up right now, I need more distance. I came to a house, a little black girl was walking toward the open front door, I took over the girl's body. I didn't fly in, I don't know how to explain how I did it, but it made perfect sense [it still does to me now]. I made her ask her father who sat on the couch not far from the door.

"Daddy, can we go somewhere?"
"Where do you wanna go?"
"I don't know, somewhere?"
"Just wanna ride around huh?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, but no messing around, okay?"
"Okay."

I posessed her body so I could escape without being seen. I didn't have to control what she said word for word because it wasn't needed. I knew that I could if I wanted to. When she spoke to her father, I was this formless, invisible ghost, for lack of a better term, that watched from the side. Then I woke up. Exactly 8:00AM.

8:00AM
I laid there recollecting the dreams as quickly and thoroughly as I could, then I rolled over and wrote with great speed what I could remember before I forgot.

[Day #11]

I was forced to do porno. The man who was forcing me to do this was also the camera man and the one who I had to do it with. He was over ten feet tall. I was picked up by my legs, hung upside-down and brought into a different room. Naked and being recorded for the public. I was starting to lose myself. I started to forget who I was. Brainwashed. My memory was losing. Upside-down six feet off the floor with something wet on my face.

A hitman, short cut salt and pepper hair, tight black shirt, dark blue jeans, he sat behind a wooden desk. There were other people in the room but I don't remember them. I held his handmade black cross bow that would tear you into ribbons if you accidentally scrape yourself on it. I made a deal with him.

Poison. I was poisoned. Blood dripped from my nose to the mask I had worn. Typically, I never have blood in my dreams, there has been scattered body parts, organs, but never blood. The giant smoothly turned into Albert over the time. My head was pounding, my brain was swelling. I crawled to the nearest person and suffocated the bastard. I strangled to death and hit everyone in the room and they didn't come near me. I didn't hit Albert though, as much as I hated him, I left him alone. I wiped the blood from my nose and walked out of the building. My sister was curled into a ball face down on the grass just outside the building. Surrounded by sticky notes that had been scattered across the grass, I had written explaining to her to get help because this and this person were doing this so this would happen. A very short man in a green trench coat and a dark blue hat stood with his two muscle men, pointing and gaping at my sister. I ran over to her and we both took off running.

I ended up in a car, my sister and I sat in the backseat, three other men were shouting at each other about how I have to get to the hospital right now. I think my head was going to explode.

My neck is strained in all directions. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move. At least I got some sleep tonight, even though it is freezing cold.

Mark and I went to go get breakfast at the fancy restaurant the train had. We sat with Scott and his friend. I didn't finish my expensive bacon so Scott asked for it. He looks like the exact replica of Corey Taylor, the only difference is that the anatomy was a little off, he was skinny and his voice. Other than that they were exactly the same, even they way he acts. Nails were the same shape, face was similar but his was rougher. He gave me the impression that he's been in a lot of fights. He dresses professionally, but I see through all of it. I left a tip of two bucks for my ten dollar meal. Usually I don't tip more than a dollar because I have a secret hatred for waiters and waitresses, mainly waitresses.

Expensive bacon. My heart chakra didn't want it. It held the thing in place and threaten to choke me. It took a good minute for it to go down. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

The meditations have regain my abilities to recall my dreams.

Azura, the guy with the dreadlocks, got off in Sacramento. Mark was out there saying goodbye to him. Laziness held me from going out to say my goodbyes to him too. As everyone re-boarded the train, Azura took out his camera phone and recorded the train leaving, he waved at us and the train, he smiled the whole damn time. My insides were cramping up. Damn him.

I'm in Emeryville now. I have to take another train to get to San Jose. I am feeling like how I was before I left for Chicago. It is hard to be pleasant. I snapped at a man, I didn't mean to, it just happened. Claustrophobic. Easily annoyed, easily irritated, fatigue with an undertone of depression.

I'm in San Jose. It's dark outside. There's a pole that's talking, alarming people to be on guard. My head is heavy from the headache.

[Day #10]

It's 6:00AM. It's snowing outside, it's cold inside, I think I had only a few minutes of sleep.

A man held a glass bottle of olive oil in one hand and a cup in the other. Another man, hair short, grey and white. He wore a leather jacket. This leather jacket man came up to the glass bottle man and shoved a knife into him in a simple emotionless stab. This replayed itself, but with emotion. The leather jacket man held the glass bottle man close, in a hug, it was intimate, as if they had been very close friends since kids, the leather man stabbed him, quick and clean.

Another dream, a man with short grey hair walked into our car with a lit cigar, he stood right next to the no smoking sign talking to someone. He smoked, either he was completely unaware or he pretended not to.

I think I'm sick. My throat is swelling.

My thoughts have settled from the week of ecstasy with Lionel. My emotions are settling back to themselves. I am no longer sociable. I am no longer "gleeful" as Lionel had called it, it sounded so insulting when he said it. I am once again tired, bitterness sets in. My back aches. My neck hurts.

It's so cold out nothing is moving.

I went out to smoke in the snow by myself. It wasn't as cold as I thought it was going to be. I thought it was going to be freezing, and I'm wearing fishnet stockings. Mark came out in his gym clothes he has been wearing since yesterday and asked for a puff of mine. The snow was so soft my boots instantly sunk in a couple inches. The air was so fresh it was unreal.

Pulsing, thudding, hot, heavy, pounding, unbearable, monstrous headache.

The silence is kicking in, I am becoming unsociable.

I've just finished meditating on my chakras. I took my time. The headache is gone.

I went down to the snack bar and bought myself a pizza and a coffee. Mark sat with me even though he wasn't going to have anything until later in the evening.

Time to Tear [Day #09]

Last night, something very cold was on us. I told Lionel that there was something on top of us. Lionel didn't answer at first, I assume he was trying to reason, then he said, "Yeah, I feel it too". It eventually got off and I looked at it. It looked like the three dinosaurs that was on my side of the bed a couple nights ago, same size too, but this one was just skeleton. It wasn't solid bone, it wasn't hallow either, it glowed a true blue color, aqua. I moved my leg over to touch his. A lot of things manifested in the room, it was so crowded, so uncomfortable that I even asked Lionel to turn on the lights. He said there was no need for that and reminded me that what is creepy to me in appearance is normal for them. I sucked it up. I agreed, I took them for what they are and respected them. They left me alone. I guess I'm no fun anymore.

Lionel's leg heated up, then my leg went into flames. It was as hot and burned as much as before, I'm pretty sure I would have blistered if I tried to take it on.

It's sometime passed 12PM. Anger, hate, frustration, sadness, heath problems and depression leaks back over to me. I  have not left yet. I'm still in Lionel's room on the floor, next to his bed. I'm usually sitting on his bed, but it doesn't feel right at this moment in time. The word, "depressed", doesn't fit anyone in Lionel's eyes except him. He seems to think I have no right to be depressed because he thinks everything falls perfectly into my lap. This is frustrating as hell, I can't just sit down and spill my organs out to him. I can't just tell him my life's story. His strict rules of who has the right to be depressed and how often he can be very unreasonable judgmental throws me off the perfect balance he naturally gives me. I know he doesn't mean to be rude, but I need to be acknowledged for what I've gone through. I haven't told him about the bad parts in my life, because I saw no point in bringing any of it up, I didn't want to dwell in what I've taken so long to get over again, there is no point, it's done, it's over. To throw me in the section of a persons who has had nothing rotten or rotting in their life is one of the most insulting things you can do to me.

My liver feels like there's lead in it, my lungs are not taking in the necessary oxygen, my skin is cold, my jaws clench and I am slouching over again. I feel like I'm going to vomit.

I can't understand why someone would think another person does not have to right or does not deserve to be acknowledged that they do undergo various levels of depression. I didn't come here to mope around and rant about my life and woe is me. I've come here to grow spiritually and mentally, which I have. I guess maybe he found it strange that I told him I liked depressing music and I like being depressed. When you spend enough time in that realm, having rotten events shoved down your throat every day, it turns you into an addict, or worse a masochist.

I wish that Lionel would not judge me that my life is great and dandy because that is not the life I've lived. Life took a shit on me in 1998 when my dad threw the vase.

Just because I've been happy to be here and I'm currently not frustrated with the human race and everything within the Earth, I am automatically judge that I have a fine and dandy life. Just because I'm not expressing my hatred toward humanity. Just because I choose to smile and be grateful so I don't look like every other miserable person in America.

He thinks I'm gloomy because I had his dad's cooking which was probably filled with whatever emotion he dumped in there when he made it. That is not the reason. I'm gloomy because my aura, soul, spirit, something that has attached to him is slowly yet cleanly ripping off. I can feel this detachment, it is painful emotionally and physically.

The week that I've been here, my energy has been in great harmony. I live in the present, I am grateful for everything, even the people that are shooting mental poison darts at me. Yesterday my thoughts started to scatter and I had trouble focusing and living in the present, instead it flung to the past reminding me of every rotten thing that has happened and then to the future where every horrible thing could happen even though there is no reasonable explanation for why that could happen.

Lionel is laying on the bed, I am still sitting on the floor. I am feeling more and more empty, like as if my parents dropped me off in the middle of the desert and are now driving away, waving goodbye to me. And I am alone.

My back aches, I am once again, becoming numb of feeling.

I'm on the train now, Lionel had walked me to Gate C. He couldn't go farther than the gate, so we had to part there instead of where I had hoped we could have gone which is to the train itself. I wish we could have taken at least one picture together.

Lionel hugged me at the gate, I had less than five minutes to get from here to the train. I thought the goodbye wasn't going to be as meaningful as I had hoped. The hug was real, timewise I have no idea how long we took, it was probably only a couple seconds but it felt like a lifetime. I hope he had felt what I did because that it was a hug that I could only dream about, until now. I've never had anyone hug me like that before, not my mother, my father, my friends from Jobcorp, no one. It wasn't just the tightness of the arms, he had emotions flow through them and they wrapped around me.

Lionel wore the same coat he wore when he came to pick me up at the station last Tuesday. I laughed sadly to myself when I saw this, because I couldn't cry.

Lionel was eating a bagel in the room the hour before we had to leave. He typically doesn't eat at the time, he barely eats. I looked at him sadly, laughing to myself not because anything was funny, but because I was sad and my emotions are fucked up so I can't cry, he told me that he eats when he's sad.

I can hardly believe that this is happening. I've never felt so horrible leaving anywhere or anyone before. I'm going to call him.

I am in an altered state of mind right now. It's probably only been twenty minutes. I can barely feel myself. I feel a loss so great it is like part of me just died, like a kid whose beloved brother or dog died... For the first time in my life, I am grieving.

I miss his presence. I miss his being. I miss his company. I miss his scent. I miss his voice. I miss his energy. I am being torn apart. Torn apart from him.

The numbness is setting in...

Lionel had expressed to me that if he had the money he would take the train with me to California and then back by himself. I realized this means a lot since he had told me from the beginning that he would lose his head if he had to wait the a four hour train delay that I had to go through.

Last night Lionel jumped in his sleep with a muffled scream. The moment he awoke, I awoke at the exact same time and gasped the exact same time he did, jumping awake from sleep at the exact same time. Every moment with him I cherish, the good, the scary and the ugly.

I got off at the first smoke stop to stretch. That guy from last Sunday that I thought that had been waiting since five in the morning was there. I didn't see notice him until he spoke to me saying, "I see that you are going back the same time I am." I was strangely glad to see him, a familiar face. We were both taking the same route but different journeys, I just thought it was really nifty.


I meditated on the train sometime passed 6PM. I got up to my third eye but didn't finish, the distraction I had at the moment in time was too much to focus. My heart chakra feels like it's going to explode from the intensity of the power, size and weight. I could feel it so heavily, it took up half of my chest, hand-size outstretched.

7:29PM I've come down with the familiar subtle depression that has always lingered with me.

A pounding headache. I think my head might just explode.

A man with a short cut hair, squared rimmed glasses, dressed in a red gym shirt and a matching dark blue gym pants asked me if the lady who was taking dinner reservations came by. I told him yes and he should just go to the dining car and ask. His being calmed me, so I scribbled out a note and passed it to him, asking if he would mind if I moved over next to him so we both don't end up with someone weird sitting next to us. He was an interesting creature who smooths any awkwardness he had created by abruptly speaking with a thick British accent. This comes in when he's thinking and speaking too fast and when he's nervous.

Sometime passed 9PM, Mark came back from the dinning room and asked me if I wanted to join him in the lounge, if he could buy me a drink and that there were "many cool cats" there. I didn't feel like it because my pimple made me self conscious. I refused. Mark left saying that if I wanted to, he'll be in there. Moments later I got up and walked into the lounge. Two religious cult persons sat to my right, a guy with long hair and tattoos who didn't want to hear anything about time, another guy with long hair dreaded who always seemed to be smiling, three drunk girls at a table, another girl who sat at another table, she didn't drink but she seems more drunk than anyone there. A black guy and Mark sat at one table across from each other. I was really nervous and just walked passed them all because I didn't see Mark until he called to me. Mark offered to buy me a drink. I refused the offer. He asked me again, and again. Then I took the offer. I got a mini Jack Daniel's. The black gy had one too. "You and me Julie, we'll do this together, you and me!" He said holding his up. I grabbed mine and scooted toward him. "Okay!" We slammed our mini jacks together and took it. Apparently we were playing a drinking game that I didn't know about and I won because I drank faster and I didn't make a face. He wanted to know about me so he asked me if I saw a movie about a vampire and something to do with a general's daughter. I didn't know. He wanted me to ask him a question,, I asked him what his favorite book was. He listed two, The Day After Tomorrow (it's about Hitler's head), and Filth (a true crime novel). The guy with the dreads wanted to play the drawing game, I think he invented it on the spot. He folded up a paper to four sections (there were only four of us playing the game). He spun my empty Jack bottle and it pointed at himself. He went off to the other table and spent some time drawing on the first section. We all added to this taking our own section and having to draw without seeing what the other person drew. We continued the drawing by using the lines that the person from the top section left. It came out looking like a LSD drawing. The black guy who calls himself a cook made me try out his tuna salad mixture he made from the Bumble Bee can, he added a bunch of sauces to it and fed it to me, he really wanted to know what I thought of it. I told him too much mustard, more pepper! After this, Mark and I went to go brush our teeth at the same time in the restroom.

I didn't look back once. I should have looked back when I left Gate C. It's 9:30PM, I woke Mark up to use his phone, I called Lionel three times, he didn't pick up.

Silhouette (Day #08)

Last night there was a thunderstorm. It lit up the room and I saw it flashing from underneath my eyelids. I kept expecting to hallunisate, have aliens visit, have flashes take over my vision, have entities and creatures that I don't want to see bother me. Nothing... It was just really hot under the blankets. It didn't seem to bother Lionel though.

Lionel's arm tossed over to my side of the bed. His hand got stuck in my hair and I left it there. His hand was very warm, too warm... The strands of my hair started to heat up and it quickly went into flames. Flames, I felt it, it wasn't just heat, they were flames. Burn. They trailed down to my head and my scalp went into flames and I couldn't take it anymore, it was getting painful, I woke Lionel up.

Lionel said he thinks he's coming down with a fever. Earlier today he had symptoms of a flu. We joked and said that maybe it's his energy burning up for a cleanse since so much has happened this past week. Overnight, I heard Lionel blow his nose, once. Why this is important is because this morning, he expressed to me in a confused manner that he wasn't sick anymore. He said that ever since I came here, weird things has been happening, not in a bad way, I'm happy he likes this adventure.

A whisper woke up me in the middle of the night. It called me by name. It's voice was a male's with too much testosterone. Lionel didn't believe me. He tried to reason by explaining to me that I was probably confused by a dream. I wasn't dreaming. I know it. I woke him up right after to tell him about someone calling me. He still tried to reason. I got frustrated and gave up on explaining what little evidence I had and just ended up repeating to him that I've traveled enough to know the difference. I think I said it with such frustration that he believed me.

Moments later when I thought the subject had dropped, Lionel told me that he felt a hand touch him, run up his leg. A worker's hand, three times his size. Rough and thick-skinned.

Lionel also had a nightmare last night that I ended up waking him up from. He was struggling a lot.

We went to see Paranormal Activity 3 in the afternoon.