June 2, 2020

I'm in my room. Caitlin is beside me. We're both on our computers. She's working from home; she left work early without getting full permission because protestors are expected to march from Westlake to the Seattle Opera House which is right next to where she works.

I'm having a difficult time. I feel guilty for writing something that isn't going to contribute to positive change or fight injustice. But this is my journal. And I need to organize my thoughts. So here we are...

I gave my parents and little sister the middle finger today, not literally, just figuratively. I told them that I don't want to talk to them anymore. I feel a lot of hate right now. And my parents are the easiest target. I hate that I am this way, but here I am. I can't stand my parents—as if I were an angry teenager.

I am disgusted with my own character.

I wish I were respectful and less impulsive.

But I can't keep my head on straight. 

I am facing an accusation or rather a deep rooted worry—my virtues are fake. My goodness is veil hiding a vicious infantile vampire.

I have the sense that there isn't anything novel left in the world. There's nothing new to see. Maybe that's all the novelty that life has to offer. 

One might hope that there is more to life than novelty.