[Log-2: Insanity]
I think about killing people.
Not in some fantasy-murderer kind of way. Not in some Joker-esque spiral where I lose control and snap. No, I think about it calmly. Quietly. Like someone wondering what to eat for dinner. It's just there. A thought. A scene in my mind, playing out in eerie silence. Like a home video with all the joy stripped away.
Blood. Screaming. Silence.
And the scariest part?
I laugh.
Not every time. Sometimes I just stare, blankly, while the image plays on loop in my mind. But other times—if I'm alone—I laugh. Not because it's funny. Not because I want to. It just… slips out. My body reacts before I even know why. And I don't know if I regret it. That's the part that really digs into my brain. I don't know if I'm capable of regret anymore.
If someone walked into my room right now and told me my entire family died in a car crash… I think I'd laugh.
Or maybe I'd cry while laughing. That weird hybrid emotion that doesn't make sense even to me. Not grief. Just noise. Just a broken machine rattling through a routine. A series of reactions strung together by muscle memory, not meaning.
That's what life feels like now.
A routine. A bland, empty loop of days that blur together until time itself feels fake. It's all temporary. Pointless. Like water on hot pavement. Here, then gone. Vaporized before anyone even notices.
All this pressure society throws on us—relationships, success, religion, love—it means nothing. Not really. We live. We rot. And then we're gone.
That's it.
Maybe that's why I don't feel human anymore.
I mean, what is a human anyway? Someone who feels deeply? Who cries when they're supposed to? Someone who connects, shares, opens up?
I don't do any of that.
I haven't cried in so long I've forgotten what it feels like. I don't miss anyone. I don't daydream about love or the future. My mind keeps talking like it belongs to me, but it feels like I'm just watching it from a distance. Like it's an old friend who turned into a stranger, and now I'm stuck with them.
Even my heart—it should race when I get bad news. It should react. But no matter what happens, it just… stays steady. Calm. Quiet.
Too quiet.
I was raised religious. Protestant, to be specific. Church on Sundays. Prayer before meals. God above everything. Maybe that's the only thing that's kept me from completely losing it. Fear of hell. Fear of judgment. Or maybe…
Maybe I just don't want to get caught.
That's a thought that haunts me. Because what does that say about me?
If the only thing keeping me from hurting others is consequence, then what am I? A person? A monster in disguise? Just another empty shell pretending to be whole?
I watch people smile and laugh and live like everything's okay. And I stare. Blank. Hollow. I don't feel jealousy. I don't feel hatred. I just feel…
Nothing.
Not because I'm empty, but because this is just what I am now. My wiring is different. Broken. Rerouted.
Sometimes, I try to smile back. My mouth stretches into the right shape, my eyes crinkle the right way—but there's nothing behind it. It's like watching a puppet go through the motions. A mimicry of emotion. A mask I've learned to wear better and better with each passing day.
I've got a girlfriend.
She's sweet. Patient. She tries. She knows I have trouble sleeping, that I see things sometimes. She holds me when I twitch in my sleep. She texts me good morning every day.
And I feel nothing.
She gives me warmth, and I give her static. She talks, and I smile, and nod, and do all the things I'm supposed to do—but inside? There's a vacuum. No butterflies. No anxiety. No love. Just… a hollow echo. Like I'm watching someone else live my life.
I'm sixteen.
Sixteen.
I haven't even graduated high school yet, and already I feel like I've aged centuries. Like I've lived and died a thousand times inside my own head. Each year that passes, the darkness gets louder. Stronger. It grows inside me like a parasite—or maybe a truth I'm finally starting to see clearly.
The deeper I go, the closer I get to whatever's at the center. The real me. And I'm terrified that what I'll find there… isn't a person at all.
It feels like I'm rotting from the inside out.
I'm growing. Getting taller. Stronger. People say I'm "maturing." But mentally? Emotionally? Spiritually? I'm decaying. My soul is breaking down like meat in a sealed box, stewing in its own filth.
I smile more now. People tell me I seem happier. That I've improved.
They have no idea.
I smile because it keeps the questions away. Because it hides how far gone I really am. Because it keeps me safe behind the illusion of progress.
I used to believe I was sane. That this was just depression. That I could fix it with enough time or therapy or prayer.
But now?
Now I'm not so sure.
Maybe I've passed that threshold. Maybe this is the new normal. Maybe this is what I really am. And the part of me that still wants to be sane—the part typing these words—it's just the last piece left before the void swallows it up.
And the worst part of it all?
I don't even remember what sanity felt like.
[End of Log-2: Insanity]