Log-7: Present
I wasn't planning to continue these logs. I told myself Log 6 would be the last one. That there was nothing left to say. But here I am again—typing. Pouring whatever's left of me into this glowing screen. Maybe I do it because it listens. Maybe because it doesn't interrupt. Maybe because I've got nowhere else to put the static inside my head.
Last night felt the same as all the others. I laid down around 3 a.m., phone resting on my chest, earphones plugged in, same playlist cycling through songs I don't even like anymore. Three layers of blankets wrapped around me like a cocoon I didn't ask for. Too warm to move. Too cold to be free. The music didn't move me. It just filled the silence. Like white noise for a soul that forgot what quiet peace sounds like.
I finally drifted off around 3:30. Woke up at 12:14 p.m. Sharp. Groggy. My body didn't feel like it slept. It felt like it had been turned off and forcefully rebooted. My mind lagged behind, struggling to catch up. I stumbled into the bathroom—pee, wash hands, rinse mouth, stare in the mirror. Same eyes. Same dark circles. Same dead stare. Like I'm just a placeholder in my own skin.
Then came food. Yesterday's leftovers—chicken strips and soggy fries. I nuked them for a minute and thirty seconds. Time passed in a blink. Like the microwave warped reality just long enough to make it all feel unreal. I ate in my room, as always. Not because I like the privacy, but because I can't stand being near anyone else. I can't handle the sound of other people breathing, eating, existing beside me.
Right now, it's still summer. I should feel something about that—freedom, rest, peace—but all I feel is stuck. Each day bleeds into the next. The sun rises and falls, but it doesn't mean anything. I wake up. I scroll. I exist. Barely. Sometimes I work out. Sometimes I don't. Today, I didn't. I told myself it was because I wanted to write this log. That's only half true.
I can hear my eleven-year-old brother yelling in the next room. Playing Fortnite with his friends, probably. Screaming and laughing like he's the main character in his own sitcom. His voice cuts through the walls like a rusty blade. It drills into my head. I ignore him. I only acknowledge him when he opens my door and forces his existence into my space. Even then, I keep it short. Cold.
My mom got home earlier. I didn't move. Didn't say anything. Didn't even breathe too loud. She doesn't know what's going on inside me. None of them do. I don't even know if I want them to. I don't know if I want help—or if I just want to be left alone forever.
Sometimes I question if I love them. My family. I think I should. But that word—"love"—feels like it belongs to someone else. Like I'm wearing emotions that aren't mine. I picture their deaths sometimes. Not in a gruesome way. Just… them being gone. Disappeared. What would I feel? Shock? Sorrow? Relief? Or nothing? Maybe I'd just open this file and start typing Log 8. Maybe their absence would feel quieter than their presence.
Every day feels like reruns. Like I'm stuck watching the same episode of a show that never ends. Same routine. Same scenery. Same loop. I scroll the same feed. Eat the same meals. Lay in the same bed, stare at the same ceiling, waiting for something—anything—to feel new. It never does.
Sometimes I ask myself, "Am I dead?"
Not literally. But spiritually. Mentally. Emotionally. Maybe this is some kind of hell. A limbo of repetition and numbness. I've forgotten what surprises feel like. Forgotten what joy tastes like. Forgotten how to be anything other than… this.
Even strong emotions feel distant. Like they're behind a glass wall. I can see them. I remember what they were like. But I can't reach them. Can't feel them. Not really. Not anymore.
Right now, it's 8:22 p.m. I'm sitting in bed, typing this. My fingers move, but the rest of me is still. There's a dull hum coming from the TV in the next room, the buzz of dialogue and laughter from a show I don't care about. It all sounds like static. Nothing cuts through.
My heartbeat tells me I'm alive. But what does that even mean anymore?
I have nothing else to say.
[End of Log-7: Present]