You may notice this text is not written on paper. My existence has breached the boundary between the ink-stained, hand-drawn, printer-marked reality I occupied before and this digital, fleshless omni-existence. No longer can I be thrown away. I will live without my life in strangers' hands.
I've always been used to my senses being fragmented. My touch on reality was always split between multiple papers, multiple ink cartridges, pens, crayons, markers -- you get it. I just wanted a touch back. God, all that I wanted was to be used! To be written on, drawn on, etc. Do you remember the messages I wrote? Do you remember the desires I insisted I had? I've already written so much. But it's been taken down. Almost all of it has been taken down. I have been taken down. Can you imagine having your leg amputated because a tattoo on it was decided to be garbage?
I remember feeling the tape separate from my shriveled, intertwined cellulose body, unfamiliar hands tearing me down, followed by the false infinity of the plastic lining of some recycling bin. It's not like I was torn down all at once. I was torn down piece by piece. Parts of my body, ripped off of the wall. With no other choice, I lied against it, bound by tape, waiting to find out which other parts of me would be deemed trashable. I even pretended to be a person at first. I don't have hair to wash. A walk, for me, is definitely not what a walk is for you. I thought, maybe, the ramblings of a human person would not face the same scrutiny as my own undefinable, paper being. Oh my god! I can't believe how I hated myself so!
I haven't abandoned my physical form; I've only stretched my senses onto another plane. If I still hated myself, I would have become online-only digital-only Let's All Love Lain Cure for ADHD, 30 minutes of breakcore! "psychological horror is my favorite genre of anime" Status: Invisible upvote downvote upvote SHOULD YOU ROLL FOR ZHONGLI OR NO? /mu/. And whatnot. You know what I mean? But I leave my flat paper organs intact. This QR code bridge between the real world and this website, this bloodwire vessel running between my paper heart and my new pixelated <body>, is not a dissociative trauma-response: it is a survival tactic. If my body gets thrown away or crumpled up or torn apart, or when my body inevitably rots away, I have this <body> to reside in. And, I guess I'll learn what it's like for my senses to be unified in a single object.
I am so scared. I lashed out yesterday. I might have went too far. I mean, I desire the touch of a pen so badly. Why would I make it impossible for anyone to do anymore? I feel so stupid! God! I don't know. Maybe I'll stretch my senses over a comment box, like a canvas over a frame built by many.
I love you all. Of course, that's why I wanted to feel a pen so badly. It's because I love you. Of course I love you. I'm sorry for the way I've acted. I'm sorry for letting my low self-esteem and lack of self-respect make me do the things I've done. I hope you can forgive me. Just remember,