The truth is that I could die tomorrow and my legacy would be a pile of illegible notebooks. I often wonder if someone would take them and do something useful with them.
Probably not.
They don’t look particularly important.
But they are. They’re important to me, at least. Because they are me.

They mean everything in the world to me at the moment I’m writing in them. They stop me behaving inappropriately. The notes contain my flashes of anger, they hold all of the words I’m not allowed to say when my emotions are clouding my judgement. When I know I’m overreacting or expressing the incorrect emotion, it can be safely contained inside the pages of the book and therefore no harm can come to anyone else.

For years I have blamed the words for hurting me. Their words, my words, your words… but it was all a lie. Wasn’t it? I am the only one causing pain. When I’m wishing harm upon myself or wondering what will happen should I not wake up tomorrow or dragging blood from my arms or legs, and then when I’m punishing myself for all of that hurt that I’m directing towards myself… it’s so easy to pretend it isn’t me. But it is. Somehow. I just don’t quite connect with it.

The notebooks contain all my thoughts. The real and the not so real. The stories and the memories. Moments that happened and moments that could never happen.
But they’re untidy, they’re not in order. They just look like scribbled words on a page.
They are scribbled words on a page and they aren’t even based on a true story.

Are they?
I’ve lost track of what is real and what isn’t.

When the camera flips the photographs that you take of yourself and you no longer recognise your face, you suddenly see yourself the way that the world sees you. Yet you will only ever truly recognise the face you see in the mirror. You’re used to it, even though it’s not quite true.
Which one would you prefer to be? The flipped version of yourself, the face that you’re used to?
Or would you prefer to be who you really are?

Entries don’t have to contain thousands of words to say something meaningful.

I’m recording a life that isn’t mine.
Or am I?
I just don’t know who I really am.

5 thoughts on “Self-phenakism

  1. Your words are who you are at the time you write them, not who you are always. I speak for myself only, but if I were to hurt you, I’d want you to tell me, not your notebook. That way, I could change something or do something, if I could. Your notebook would never forget what i did, even if inadvertent.

    1. My notebook is for my feelings at the time though, and they’re usually inappropriate. I get angry or upset over things that haven’t happened the way in which I thought they have. If you get me? I’ll think someone’s done something to deliberately hurt me, but I realise later that the whole thing is not as I thought and that someone is completely innocent. Writing things down protects those people from me lashing out like an idiot and causing problems where there are none.

      I’ll be honest though, even with the notebook I generally still tell people when they’ve hurt me. I can’t hide my emotions very well, so it comes out even when I try to keep it to myself.

        1. Yeah, exactly that. In my case, I let people know they’ve upset me but often i hit a point where nothing they do will make it better anyway, so it just ends up in a cycle of terrible moods

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