You can judge me, but judgement is a kind of fantasy. You’re living in a fantasy that my world is different from your world, how the things I’m afraid of would somehow be less scary to you in your world. That the same monster is a different monster and A is not A.

My world, where you want love more than anything else, so much that it consumes your thoughts and desires and any bad person can exist that can use your humanness against you. To you use for themselves at an unfathomable cost to you and that it is completely reasonable to fall for this because I wanted love more than dignity or friends or family or respect or food or shelter or money or my body or my tenderness or my safety or my life.

There’s a vast emptiness and uncertainty about existence. How is existence possible? There is no love here, how can I exist? There are days and days without beauty, without rest and relief without vision, without pride, just endless fighting.

I want to say what about me? But I’m afraid that if I show emotions, they won’t matter or they won’t exist and I won’t exist after all. I’m afraid to find out.

Can someone tell me the truth? I don’t even know what this world is made of, but it’s made of these things outside walls and doors and windows, streets and cold nights and strange men and no sense of time.

It’s very hard to be brave about something you tried to be brave about before and failed. When something tries to kill you you start to not exist as much anymore but the animal inside you fights to live and you are only an animal like this for days. And when it’s over you don’t remember your human name, all you know is animal dreams.

I wanted to find truth, I wanted answers but there were only more questions to ask, questions exploding out of questions. And finally I never found the truth, of what is my true value, but only the many, many, things that were not true. I think to subtract what is almost the total of false from the whole leaves you with an approximation of the truth, that is enough. I am enough of the things I don’t like. My endless curiosity struggled with asking enough questions as to why I was not enough. Then my mother told me that I am enough. This is not certain as a statement but it interests me that I am the possibility of enough.

If the whole world loved me, would that love be true?