That Damned Journal

A while ago I wrote about a journal I had rediscovered, which was full of the ramblings and diary entries that I had made in the early stages of a very bad time for me.

Depression had me firmly in its grip, which was a bit of a bugger, and dipping back into the journal has reminded me that I ranged in this journal from delusional meanderings to deathly dull recitations of each day’s minutiae. 

If it were just daily minutiae, or just delusional rantings it somehow would be better. The problem is that they feed off each other in this journal, and it is painful to read. I’m not going to unbox all the fun and games from that period again here. The people who were there at the time will no doubt thank me for that.

I did put the book to one side for a while to see if my visceral distaste for it became less overwhelming, but it hasn’t worked. I picked it up this weekend and just felt revulsion as I re-read it. That was… unexpected.

It’s a window on a version of myself that was very flawed and very ill. It’s part of my history, but at this point it now feels counterproductive to keep looking back at it. If anything it’s a painful marker that evokes shame and remorse and I don’t need it any more.

So I’m going to destroy it. The journal cover is lovely, and I may try to get a fresh replacement for it some time, but I need to let go of this remnant now. I haven’t decided how I’m going to destroy it yet – but I suspect fire and a toast with select company may be involved

Short Story: Command Control

You stand there, and watch the figures scrolling as the results come in. The cascade of reported statistics suggests a deluge of events overunning normal operating parameters, and yet you can do nothing but stand there. The post-hypnotic commands I have carefully laced through the entire command centre crew’s consciousnesses have all overwritten your ability to do more than await your next orders.

You desperately try to twitch even a finger, but it’s no use, you can’t even crook it slightly. Worse you’re becoming aware that you are starting to feel warmer. If you could even remember what the trigger words were, let alone what the commands were you might feel less worried, more in control – despite how ironic that would be under the circumstances.

You can’t even turn to track where I am. All you can make out is the sound of my typing on a keyboard somewhere nearby, and occasional less identifiable sounds as if I’m moving things, or people around. You’re not sure which you find the less disconcerting option

You can’t even remember what I look like – no doubt a result of the commands – just a memory of someone, saying something, and then a blank and here you are. The screen is trying to tell you something, but it’s hard to focus on the details when you can barely move your eyes voluntarily.

At least the involuntary stuff isn’t affected. You can breathe, and blink. Excess saliva is beginning to drool. You hope that’s not an indication of some form of kink. That would be the worst, surely? But then are these your thoughts or something implanted along with the commands?

Before I leave, you feel my touch on your shoulder. A simple rest of the hand for a moment and then I’m gone. You feel volition return moments later and the sounds of alarm rise from all quarters. You turn to assess the damage but just see people milling in confusion. Whatever I was doing on the computer, nobody knows, or can’t remember at the very least. It’s another successful heist, but nobody can tell what was actually taken.