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April 16th 1:23 am atlas hiccuped There's me in everything I have made, so much so that when one looks at it or reads it they know me, and know it was I who created it, even if before they didn't know me. So much so that when they look at it or read it I can look through it and see them, and know them, too. I once thought that being remembered after one's death meant one was immortal (by no means an original thought), but this would mean I am truly immortal, remaining on this earth to watch for millennia, or until everything I ever created was destroyed. When I die I will leave little pieces of me all over the world, parts of it I have changed will have me in them, and those pieces will watch the world change and will learn, forever. What would happen were I to learn forever? Would I eventually know everything, or would I go in circles, having to re-learn things I had forgotten? It's unimaginable to think that my brain has the capacity to hold everything it encounters, but it's horrid to think things just fall out of it into nothing, that it overflows. Absurd. Somewhere, buried under piles of inconsequential memories, are piles of inconsequential forgotten things, most of them irrecoverable. But every now and then one does pop up, sometimes even without prompting, something I haven't thought of since it happened. Like the time I couldn't remember which was left and which was right, so I looked at the paper of the boy next to me and copied his answer, and this particular boy turned out to be the only one in the whole first grade class to get that answer wrong. The brain remembers everything. Somewhere in those onion layers is every event that ever happened to me, and every equation I ever studied, and every novel I ever read, word for word. Perhaps if I were to be hypnotised I would learn it all again. I spent fourteen years in school, and I can't remember the Japanese word for bedroom. I will spend my forever in a constant state of extreme confusion, learning and remembering nothing as the tick-tocks whirl by. I am not afraid of death, seeking solace in dreaming up fantasies that remnants of me will be able to avoid it. I don't even not want to die, or dislike the thought. But death is associated with age, and I don't want to be old. I am still not a legal adult, but I think sometimes I'm old already. That by the time I'm 25 I'll be ancient and futureless, so I had better live now. But how can I live, in a strange country where the unfamiliar are more unfamiliar than ever before, reeking hostility and seeming to glare challenges all around, and I am uncomfortable in leaving this little room. The tick-tocks are whirling by the windows, until I'm already 25. (How will I feel when I am 25, reading over this?)
April 21st 8:44 pm dark grey & light grey
head in the sand
i can LOVE my cake and eat it too
& oh!
this is a sentence in morse code
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