pSyche Went back over everything I'd ever written today. Ignored my mother's pleas to go do something: to go be social, I guess.
Journals, notebooks, scrap paper, computer files- I went through all of it. And it was the strangest feeling, because i read and reread some of it, and could hardly believe that I'd ever written some of it.
Some of it was so drenched in hate and bitterness of the moment, that I almost felt nauseous. Others, so deep and complex that I scarcely remembered what I was writing about. And still more than that, so much of my writing, seemed so far, so distant, that they seemed completely alien to me. These words could not be mine. These words... no, they are not part of me. I cannot create things such as these, I tell myself. I do not recognize them. But they are mine. I can tell they are mine, but I do not remember them.

Again I reread it all.
I cannot remember even writing some of it. I cannot even find the words to describe how this feels, it is a very lonely thing to feel. It is as if I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and did not recognize myself.
epitome of incomprehensibility Nadja by André Breton
1984 by George Orwell (part of it)
what's it to you?
who go