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Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers and Gelly Roll pen on cardstock, 8.5 x 11.

Referenced used: Kieran

Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers and Gelly Roll pen on cardstock, 8.5 x 11.

Referenced used: Emily Browning

A short wordvomit and commentary on my own internal perception.

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Sometimes it occurs to me just how derealized I am all the time. Like it only happens once a week or so where I’ll just suddenly realize…

Holy shit I’m real.

I am actually living and breathing and existing in this space and my life is real and everything that’s happening is real.

I’ll usually only have that feeling of being hyper-present in the universe for like… five minutes, until I get distracted or whatever and then I just go back into this daze. I don’t feel time passing, everything just seems so infinite. I don’t really pay attention to where I am or who I’m with or even what I’m doing or saying, even precise, focused things, or some sort of deep conversation.

So when the realization happens I realize that I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing up until that point. It’s not a blackout, I remember it, I just wasn’t… paying attention, I guess. To my whole life and everything in it.

I’m pretty sure derealization can be a part of depression but it’s usually only for brief periods, rather than… the norm. And yeah, I’m depressed, majorly, but it doesn’t feel like it’s that bad, you know? But I could be saying this because I literally haven’t been NOT depressed for more than one month at MOST at a time since I was about ten so feeling this absolutely empty and disconnected might not actually be normal. It’s also kind of a weird thought how much I’m not actually bothered by it. Like… yeah, I’m in a big pit right now for other reasons, but for the most part I don’t even realize I’m depressed. It’s just so /normal/ for me. 

Sometimes I wish I had something internal to relate to, to know from memory what it’s like to not be depressed, to be “normal” and optimistic and… happy?

But then I shake it off. I’m fine how I am, I look bad next to most people but on my own I don’t actively think “wow I’m so depressed” all the time. 

This probably looks really bad to most people. Like… my mind is /fucked/, in so many more ways than just the above. And here I am, seeing absolutely no reason to do anything about it. Not that I “don’t want to be happy”, I am happy with how I am. I’m not happy with my situation, but myself, the way /I/ am as an individual, I love. It just doesn’t seem particularly appealing to me to be any different than I am.

Is that true, spiritual happiness? Being so absolutely comfortable with how you are, no matter how shitty your body or your life or your mind is? Buddha would probably say so. Most people would probably see it as someone who doesn’t fit their definition of happy, so they must be in need of outside “help”.

I’m rambling a bit so I’ll cut this off here. But it’s interesting, isn’t it? Existentialism and psychoanalyzing yourself are both fun.

Decided to update this blog with some REAL ART YEAH

Oh god my everything hurts

It’s Kei’s 16th birthday today so I figured I’d draw her for the first time in like a year

So yeah

Scanned in the original sketch, and I was originally just gonna color it but I decided to try out some digital painting and aside from being EXCRUCIATING on my back and my neck, it was really fun and I love how it turned out. 

— This is a dream I had this morning that scared the shit out of me. I’ve always had incredibly vivid, realistic, and detailed dreams, but never one that felt THIS real. It felt intentional, like there’s something about it that means more than it appears to. Eevee thinks it might be some sort of premonition dream. I’m not sure I disagree. —

I stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door. I was in some sort of office complex, or mall, I’m not sure where I was. There were pools of blood everywhere. It was sticky, and thick, congealed in places. I walked over to the sink and noticed a clipboard with a key on a keyring sitting on the counter. It only had two or three pages on it, but they were clean, and there was a big stamp on the top of the pages. I didn’t take the time to read what company they belonged to but I knew I’d need to read them when I had time. I tucked the whole thing into the back of my pants and looked at the cleaning supplies in the corner; there were a couple brooms leaning against the wall, with a bloody rag draped over them. I nudged the towel onto the floor and took one of the brooms and slid it into my back belt loop, and took another for in-hand. I spun it around and made stabbing motions with it to get used to the weight before I noticed a steady dripping sound. Looking around, I noticed a pile of blood-soaked papers on top of the janitorial garbage can. Something was shining on them and I looked closer. “SPLAT SPLAT” it read, blood so thick that it laid raised on the paper. I noticed some sort of slime dripping down and looked up. There was a man, with scruffy grey hair and thick glasses, stuck to the celing with the slime. It was still sticky at the edges, but across his face, torso and legs it had solidified like crème brule. He made a muffled noise and I screamed just as a stream of blood released from somewhere on him and fell into my mouth. I spat it out as I threw the door open and ran.

—

It was a big house. A massive, ridiculously rich person house. The bottom floor alone was almost the size of a small elementary school. In one room, with glass dinnerware in glass-fronted cabinets along the walls, there were two women sitting in high-backed chairs at a dining table that could seat maybe two dozen people. One was young, twenties or so, wearing a black business suit and shiny black flat shoes, and the other was older, somewhere in her mid fifties, with graying blonde hair and a slightly paunch physique. There was a little girl laying on her stomach a bit away from them, on the floor, crying. She was struggling, but seemed to be paralyzed. Business Suit had asked something, looking over the small metal tray on the table between them. It had one empty syringe, a few scalpels and some alcohol-soaked swabs. The older woman replied, “legal paralyzation based turning is the next step to scientific evolution.” Suit nodded unsurely, and they began talking quietly as the woman began preparing a second syringe.

The little girl had managed to get to the window, open it, and fall out. The distance from a ground-floor window to the dirt isn’t far but it winded her and she lay still.

Suit darted around the corner, turning from the back yard into the side, and dodging the many dogs that belonged to the house. They were all tied up on long leashes, but they wanted to play, and she was running. She tried to shush them and made it halfway through the front yard—which, alone, was about the width of a football field—and tripped on her fancy shoes, landing in the wet, soppy grass. She pulled herself up and saw a large playground structure in the distance, and decided she would wait on top of it until…. Something.

Rescue.

Being found.

Death.

Something.

My pain is a constant.

Of all the things in my life, discomfort, frustration, and an inability to function are all the most reliable.

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This is a copy of the email I just sent to my parents regarding my back and the records I finally got from my appointments in May and June 2010 with Dr. Alan Brown at Bellevue Bone and Joint, and the MRI I had done in June 2010 at CDI in Bellevue.

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I thought my jacket was harboring an ember and I was on fire so I was swatting at my boob for a good 10 seconds before I realized it was the orange light from the heather reflecting off the pocket snap.

I should probably start getting more than 3 hours of sleep a night. This sleep deprivation-induced delirium and hallucinations aren’t really doing me a lot of good.

Quitting smoking via self control: about as effective as going on a diet, but a lot better for your body and ten times harder.

It’d be the same if salad made you chew off all your [finally/previously] long and healthy nails and start twitching.