The Diary of Mr. Alien

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Jan 2016. Sunday.

It's cold and yet I feel like myself in this weather.

Maybe where i'm from it was cold all the time. 

June (early) 2016.

Broken ideas fall out of my head...

 

My face doesn't fit me, and it morphs without me knowing.

My thoughts are never ending, and they won't leave me alone.

No one REALLY likes me, and I know it to be true.

 

People don't understand who I am.

And I don't help the situation at all. 

 

Today is the worst day so far.

I think.

Writing doesn't feel like something i'm doing to appease them. So at least I have my writing.

June (late) 2016.

As rain falls onto my skin I look up and wonder what the sky looks like. Through the clouds and through the atmosphere and into deep space. 

I've always felt like an alien, and it's most likely because I am one.

An alien without a home. 

This diary is my home. It listens and says my own words back to me. It's therapeutic and also a garbage fire of meaningless words.

When I listen to Radiohead I feel connected. Less alien. 

The humans that make up that band must understand parts of who I am, and in turn I understand parts of who they are.

July (someday) 2016. 

This month can go to hell. Actually the last 7 can, but who's counting.

Actually I am. I've never stopped counting.

Fucking last 7 months.

I feel a kind of emotional hangover. The months have yet to let me go.

The leftover ick feels like anger, sadness, longing, and despair. It's a cocktail of shit.

How do humans deal with these feelings and not just implode?

*Mental note: ask one of them. 

 

Today I feel older than my counted years. 

I'm what appears to be 35 to most people, but I'm old in my alien insides. I'm a thousand years old.

 

I a thousand fucking years old.

 

July (late) 2016.

I might give up.

 

I mean I do. I give up.

At least for today.

I give up periodically. Maybe all the other humans do too. 

My alien-ness has never felt more real. I am an alien.

If I haven't said that before .. let me state it for the record now.

 

I am an alien.

 

Even how I type these words is alien. My sentences are short. My thoughts are long. My mind is on fire.

What was I saying?

 

My job would be better without me. They'd be more peaceful. It would be more peaceful there. 

My alien brain is wasting their time. 

They want parts of who I am, but they don't want me. 

 

On a similar note (to myself) I meet people and talk too fast. I know this now. 

Humans must not process information like me. 

*Mental note: slow down.

Also, fuck that mental note. Today is my giving up day. I'll just talk alien to myself instead.

 

I want to mind meld but they don't seem to have that here. I feel like they mind meld .. literally .. everywhere else. but here. And where I come from, it's just how you talk. You go directly at someones insides and get down to it. It's quick, efficient, and leads to much shorter discussions.

We're wasting a lot of words.

 

I give up again.

The places that want my money are tired of me.

They would much rather have someone who does what they're supposed to, and give them things on time, and in full, and they want me to be better at credit and paperwork and policies. I don't want to be part of their game that is runs in circles and keeps on going.

I want out.

July (still late) 2016.

I left Facebook and no one noticed.