The things I remember, like the things I forget, are all bound by my consciousness.

I really don't know what to say. I want to talk, want to journal, to write out my fears, my passions, but I'm lost. I don't know how to start. Maybe now's not a good time, when I should be getting ready to sleep, to prepare for the new day, the new passing of time.

You know, I never can see years ahead. I can't picture myself older than I am. They tell us in class to think of what we'll be doing five, ten years from now, and I can't. I see, nothing. It's not that I see myself as gone, it's that I can't see myself. I can't create a path for me.

Things I want to make, those I can picture. I should draw them sometime, first in 2D, then in 3D. Maybe I'll make models, that might be fun. Of paper and tape. I think I want to try that sometime. Color them even? Though maybe not. Perhaps cardboard, though it's thick.

I can see things I want to do, but not me doing them.

And there's that concept they call sex. That thing that repulses me, but that my body craves. And pregnancy. What exquisite torture getting pregnant would be. The choices, so many to make, each with its own consequences, each with its own pains. Do I abort or carry to term. Perhaps I do whatever possible to make the fetus die, poison my body to see what my limits are? Or maybe I keep the child, care for it, raise it as my own. Or give it to a loving family to raise another misfit, another spark of pain. Oh the possibilities are endless.

Or maybe I'll go back on the pill, then find a guy or two who doesn't care. Someone who'll just use me, abuse me, something so familiar. Why not? Well, my friends would object, my life would be endangered. But so tempting the pain, to fall back into the abyss, to not have to be real, to be here.

Fish has trouble, I think, believing that I am asexual, simply because I've a sex drive. But see, there's no attraction to the person. There's attraction to the pain, to the disgust towards myself.

But then, he says, that could all be a product of Lexicon. Truly not I think, for even before that exquisitely wonderful hell sexual pleasure was pain. Masturbation was something disgusting I did when my body wouldn't shut up. I had to punish my body so I continued to the point of pain. Even then it wouldn't quiet, not for long.

So you see, maybe this was the place to start, to just shut off my mind and let my fingers tell my heart. But I feel disgust, just writing this, so mild that if I read over it I will wish to throw up. I will delete it, so I won't read it. Just post it onto the blogosphere, onto the internets where anyone can come along and learn what it is that I do in the privacy of the dark of my room to release the disgusting urges of my body. But perhaps there's not enough in here to pull a sicko to this blog so perchance I am safe, at least for a time.

Safe. Such an amusing word. Be safe, I say, and people say to me. I'm worried about you. It's not safe. But you know I'm not safe. Not in my own skin. Mayhap Prime Intellect should be created to make me safe for all eternity, along with everyone else. That would be interesting. Safe the children, from their own machinations. Maybe I could find a psychopath to use my body for all of eternity then. Maybe. Or maybe I'll die before the singularity is reached. Then I won't have to worry...unless there's reincarnation...or a heaven and a hell. I think I'd like hell. Seems more interesting than an eternity on my knees. ...well...unless doG is into bdsm...then it might be amusing...but I'm not into the whole humiliation thing anyways. Just the pain really.

And you know the funny thing. I'm not even all that energetically depressed anymore. I mean, yeah, every minute of every day I want to just go back, but that's because change is the most frightening thing I've ever tried. Every minute of every day I want to fall far enough that I can just disappear. But still, I'm not really depressed. At least, not in the same way.

But I digress from getting ready for bed.