Morose Manifesto I - July 13 2026

May 3, 2026, 9:42 AM

Mornings are best for writing, and there is no better way to begin. Something will come to me…

July 4, 2026

I have returned after a solid two months of continued isolation, and I seem to have undertaken my final epiphanies. I have been slowly sobering up since the end of April, when Edgar made an unexpected appearance in the middle of the night. That was the last time I saw him and probably ever will again. Not everything is meant to be forever, friendships rarely survive the test of time especially when there have been intense feelings from one side or both. It’s best to let people go sometimes.

I was a total wreck getting over alcohol and stimulants, so I was back to smoking cigarettes. Getting a bong seemed like the most logical progression to finally having my own place and outdoors. Also, I could go back to the greatest high ever, weed and tobacco all at once straight to the dome. Two broken bongs for each half of my heart, my mind began to disintegrate after a couple months. Here we are now.

Tinker Bellboy, my first love, has finally stopped calling me. I feel a lot better, but I often wonder what he is doing. The apartment I ended up getting in Austin reminds me a lot of the place I left in Virginia, the home we began to build together. It’s as if in one of those awful moments of screaming and crying at Bellboy, I bore all my muscles and closed my eyes so tightly that I transported through spacetime.

My eyes stayed closed for the first year. I’m still haunted by those blacked out memories; stumbling around the city like a lost child, being picked up by whatever creature was passing by. I had a series of flings upon getting to Austin after a life of only knowing one person. Being with anyone other than Tinkerbell was death, it certainly felt like it by the end of my escapades. I wonder how long these memories will remain relevant, and how quickly I could expunge them and move on.

After one year of my eyes sealed shut, I open them to find a life very similar to the one I had been living transposed 1500 miles southwest and in solitude. For all my fantasies of running away, it only took 24 years to do it. I predicted an immediate physical transformation, though it has been slow to unfold. One thing for sure is that my hair has grown several inches longer than it has ever been in my life. I know the quality of my life has increased, regardless of the tribulations I’ve undertaken to change those circumstances I hated the most.

This city changed me; I stomp through the streets convincingly, retelling a story at the places that have been branded in my mind. There is a map of Austin that only I can see. One day I will just be a name on the walls, painted over remnants carrying the memory of my suffering.

By summer 2025, there was an entire network of people I was connected to; parts of this city will always reflect that transient friend group. Lennon and I drove out to a lakeside studio, where he would inevitably try to kiss me. I was singing Lana Del Rey’s “Million-Dollar Man” with my back turned to him because I was shy when he came up behind me and tried to lay one on me. Fool. We were both so amazed by the west side, where a lot of rich people live. Driving through the hills left me speechless, the elevation and river view seems almost coastal. It never made sense to me that so many Californians moved to Austin until witnessing the beauty of those small mountains. These roads have become familiar because of the people I know now.

Though I think of them all, the Adams family and their collection of pets (of which I was one, briefly) made such a strong imprint upon me that I think they will always live in my mind. I keep imagining us all together like we were, and somehow LB is out of jail, and even Ozzy gets out sometimes just to make us laugh.

It was like we were a family for a moment, the brevity of which still makes it difficult to reconcile. We had a mom, a dad, a dog, and siblings who loved each other. Yes, there was a yellow man seeping blood and pus from his pores and cuticles in the middle of the trap room, but we were together. That feeling of family was far better than being alone but couldn’t last more than a few weeks. Too many people, drugs and weapons in such a small place.  

It’s hard to do coke alone, and I had decided that LB was going to be my coke buddy. In early September, we were going to run away to Dallas and get loaded, then embark on a righteous road trip towards the pacific northwest, sobriety, and maybe another life. A rambling plan from two overworking minds. Right at that moment while literally packing LB’s things, BellBoy calls me to tell me that his father, Sargent Pepper, had killed himself. Up in the sky, the reality of my past life came bursting through my bubble. Tinkerbell needed me, so I went on a sober journey to Virginia on my own. Once Flower realized LB wasn’t going with me, she promptly put his clothes back in her dresser. I don’t think she ever had anything that was just hers.

Back in Virginia, I didn’t immediately go to the beach to console Tinkerbell. Instead, sat in the stillness of the woods right where I started now completely alone. I had been in the middle of nowhere by myself for weeks before, though this time it was a resounding silence. Surrounded by the beckoning darkness of the woods, this seduction I had been running from would never stop luring me. By the end of September, the changing seasons began blowing a cool breeze which carried me back towards the equator. It was obviously the only place in the world for me.  

I came back in October, to a slightly better but still difficult situation. I stayed away from the Adams Family initially. Ironically, within the first few days of me being back, they committed a crime which would ultimately get LB put away for good this time. It’s not that he won’t ever get out, but it will be long enough to feel like another life has elapsed. Half of the people from that friend group ended up in jail, dead, or fled the city of Austin. I saw the full lifecycle of a collectively drug-addicted organism, composed of unstable people rotating through available places to stay within the group until the central players are all eliminated and the collective dissolves. It took less than a year for them to be consumed.

In mid-October, I started working but I couldn’t maintain the conflicting lifestyles. Falling back into drugs was not a surprise and eventually Edgar got to me. It was Thanksgiving 2025, two years exactly since I had been chased from my childhood home with a gun, never to live there again. This year, me and my new friends got fucked up on everything you can readily get and celebrated not being with our families.

Edgar became a fixture in my life for a few months, like a venereal disease I caught after one night of not even hooking up (at first). It’s not always obvious that they are homeless. It took about a month to do enough drugs, crash out and find myself on another side quest. Edgar was not long for the city, so we drove out to New Mexico where I stayed well into 2026. We lingered on the phone for several weeks.

In early March, about a week before SXSW’26, Tinker Bell calls me and I listen to a full-blown mental breakdown as he drives around Virginia Beach from the military base to the mental hospital, to his house, finally back to the hospital. I found myself downtown looking for trouble, and it only took two nights to find my next mountain of shit to summit. This last escapade kept me occupied for all of March and April. That’s another treacherous story, involving two men I met during the debauchery of SXSW.

At the end of April, Edgar turned up at my doorstep looking for a place to stay while he had court and community service. Letting him in against my better judgment, and then kicking him out after two nights, concluded that entire chapter of my life. He reminded me of how far I had come in just a few months and gave me the motivation to finally stop drinking. He always said that God sent me to save him, but since he was the catalyst for giving up strongest vice, I guess he saved me in the end. I still don’t feel obligated to keep in touch with any of these boys, I am richer despite their attempts to rob me blind.

This is the shit that has been keeping me up at night and upset all day. The sex and drugs of it all. The only thing undone is the “rock and roll” part, I’m sick to death of everything else. So much anger, hatred and resentment built up in my body, mind and heart. How can I let it go? I just spiral endlessly about the most horrifying situations; catastrophizing my future in such a way that the mere potential to produce these ideas would drive a normal person mad contemplating what it means. How can I go on when the future is a place where all these things take place? I’m suffering consequences of work I have yet to reap the benefits of. I can’t keep being a slave to what is lost to time. I just want to let go, move on from the past and heal. Total energy disparity finds equilibrium.

July 5, 2026

Things are coming back to me now, ideas and projects, memories once abandoned now return in their orbit.

I haven’t seen myself reflected on the computer screen for a while now, my blacked-out documents turn into mirrors and keep me company as I write. I am not lonely, though I am completely alone most of the time. Gunna is the only person I see regularly at work, since Albert got arrested, neither him nor his cousin have been to work. I haven’t even seen the big boss or the van man in weeks either. I see certain cashiers frequently, like at the local coffee shop or gas station. It gives me a sense of community and friendship; I prefer certain ones over others though they all remember me eventually, even the deer I sing to on my walks have begun to know me.

I made high-quality friends at a gay club last fall that I have ignored in my seclusion since. I still think about them all the time and how it just takes one text to get in touch and make plans. One branch and I could have an amazing friend group that I already love and miss.

When I do drugs of any kind, it’s like an avalanche, it all goes the second I crack. The nicotine withdrawal has been vicious, it’s like I’m not even getting tired at all, so I lay awake every night absolutely wired. The high from smoking joints comes nowhere close to weed and tobacco via a bong. The combination hits you so differently together all at once. A bong is overwhelming and definitive; you are now baked to the highest degree and there is no way down. One or two you might still be functioning, but anything more - just forget the score.

Tinkerbell was the one who really ramped up my consumption. However, it seems that without another person to judge me, combined with recent trauma and a lifetime of unresolved pain, I was off to the races to see how much of everything I could take. I have found my limitations with things I never imagined would be put to the test and am horrified by the results. I still have curiosity about certain drugs and experiences; I am not committed to sobriety and celibacy for the rest of my life. There are many things I thought I wouldn’t do so much of which ended up taking over my existence. For shame but also for glory. Immortal, forever falling into a k-hole circling around the event horizon for the rest of all observance.

At least we are back together, you and I. Already, I feel much better and well equipped to face the world and the incoming sobriety which, I know, this time is for real. There is no more left to be smoked, drank, or otherwise consumed - I simply have had enough of it all. Into oblivion, time is new again. To become something from waste and regret is the only way forward. I am not what I have been, only the potential of what is to become. Then I may live as if I have always been that way, and the more memories I form in the meantime till death will drown out the nothingness which defined my youth.  I will have so much more to think about one day, maybe even very soon. I’m an insane person that will die a peaceful death.

My thoughts have been getting progressively more reductive from the last time I thought it, like shooting ping pong balls off a wall and the same ones get caught in a back and forth. Each rebound is more draining than the last, I drive myself crazier by the thought. Every iteration sends me further into hyper-fixation and it seems like the game will never end. The more I catch them the more I catch them.

I caught a glimpse at the screen and imagined someone was typing something to me, or as if I were watching my own progression from a distance. Sometimes I wonder if I’m having a memory before it is formed, either in anticipation or retrospect depending on the direction through time. I ask myself often the direction of my thoughts and from where they originate. If I have the thought looking forward before doing something, think of it while I am doing it, and remember once it is done, an “idea” is the completion of those thoughts in some order. The final form of an idea is hopefully ideal, meaning of great intention, quality of physical execution, and resulting in optimal outcomes for all. Maybe each of those steps involves the same thought which returns to the body obsessively, making humans act compulsively until an ideal is realized. Maybe each of those thoughts are fractal pieces of an idea compounding on each other until it is too well formed to be kept in an ephemeral state. Either way, an idea is forcing its way into the world via humanity. I believe the forces propelling us are beyond the scope of humanity’s needs, made obvious by the sheer over abundance that we create at the expense of future generations.  

Having an idea is not necessarily ideal, and having a thought doesn’t constitute an idea. Work is done in the name of manifesting an idea through a series of thoughts and actions. Striving towards an ideal requires faith in this process. An ideal is only achieved through exact sacrifices of time and energy. Though I have so many thoughts, what do I have available for sacrifice, and which ideas am I physically capable of carrying out in a given time? I need to do a spiritual audit before anything else.

It’s Sunday afternoon, the sun is still beaming and it’s going to be out for a while longer. I’ve been swimming at dusk recently, finally getting my money’s worth out of the amenities. I pay for so many things in life that I never take the time to enjoy.

Weed has this air of potential about it which makes it hard to eliminate entirely. It’s so much easier to justify smoking weed than drinking alcohol, which disrupts every system in the body. It’s a much more open-ended conundrum. Will this or won’t this be bad for me? It’s up to the user to decide. Weed calls my name but has completely lost her luster from exorbitant use. I’m surrendering to my conscience, so I hereby relinquish my stoner status. A sacrifice to set off the next chain of reactions, leading to a life which is far different than this one.

Luckily, I don’t have friendships that are solely based on weed anymore, and now I will be able to put more energy into real relationships, not this parasocial one with my high self. I have never been much for the stoner aesthetic either, I also threw away my old sentimental trash at the end of 2024 when I stopped smoking then. In the past, I’ve had to destroy everything to change my behavior. Now, I think I’ll put it all away and declutter my visual field. My spirit is aligned with mind and body; thus, it should take minimal force to stop me from doing the things I don’t want to do… right?

The stench of change is on me. I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee and singing my heart out. My joint smokes itself just like the keys press themselves just like the thoughts possess me and not them. I am a means to an end for all these things around me. I like all these things I can do with my body, mind, and life. I want to do them happily for another long while.

I miss writing so much, I feel like I exist strongly in these moments when I am writing, as well as drawing in the past and recently a newfound love for singing. For every idea, there is a specific escape velocity needed for it to emerge from the gravitational pull of the mind. The force alights the body with meaning and intention. An overwhelming sensation of purpose has befallen me, and I am addicted to being alive again. All my toxic relationships with people and substances have been distractions from my purpose of transforming the world around me.

My style is evolving one outfit at a time. I find certain clothes to be useful regularly which I suppose form the basis of a functional wardrobe. My scars have been bothering me lately, but sobriety will alleviate some of that nagging sadness and self-pity. It’s hard to tell what I want until I finish clearing out my head. That has been the nature of this ongoing document, of which I want to change the subject entirely and rebrand my life such that it is reflected in my writing and art.  

There are these things which got me through young adulthood that don’t serve a purpose anymore. The weeds in my garden are disappearing. I am feeling a bit sick to my stomach, like I’m staring down the rails of a rollercoaster. The sickness starts to dissipate as I imagine freedom from constraint. It is impending, well overdue, and fully cooked. I’m ready to feel better, finally, and maybe one day I can feel really good. I have so much faith that I can feel amazing.

July 6 – I went to Shakespeare’s for the first time and met you all.

July 9, 2026

I believe on this day 8 years ago was when I decided Phobos was born. Bunnies come to mind often, especially in the warmer months. Those creatures I took out of nature and raised domestically to ease my own loneliness, only to watch them be executed in various, sometimes mysterious ways. Little dead bunnies, all over my room. They seemed to spawn out of my mattress and melt into the floor.  

Surely the passing of Cerebus, all three in order, was the series of events that unchained the tether between my mind and the world, that sense of reality which people take for granted, that once it is broken it seems impossible to reconstruct with the brain function that does remain intact. It seems like something so fundamental has been changed about the experience of life and that initial wave of panic exponentially worsens the symptoms. Anxiety leads to dissociation, which can grow until it consumes a person in total darkness and paralysis. People who become inexplicably catatonic could be in a hyper-dissociated state. I’ve experienced the walls closing in while maintaining awareness.

Regardless of whether a condition is chronic or intermittent, uncertainty and worry is fodder to an emotional fire. Mine burned so hot and viciously that it has never stopped, it continues to burn through the deepest layers of carbon material in my mind’s ground. All the stored fuel from a lifetime will ignite one day and continue to burn for the rest of your life. I feel as though my head is inflamed, all fried out and burnt up. It’s in my eyes; specifically, that feeling of detachment and disconnection where there should be no observation of the information passing through the body at all. The mind begins to observe its own movements, and since the eyes cannot see themselves, the entire system begins to convulse, pulsate with a radiant energy which pours from me all the time. Existentiality takes over and the mind is reduced to a figment of itself. A perceptive autoimmune disorder. Things will begin to grow again once the ground fire has burned everything away. Undead material gives way to new life.

Theres always time before, when you are unknown and the world is yet to know your name. By the end of this year, the groundwork will be laid and anonymity starts to fade. It’s like disrobing from an all-consuming cloak.

My feet ache from pacing around; they feel like if id been working all day. My lower back does hurt from working, constantly leaning over at a strange angle. This physical pain is a consequence of activity. The intense anxiety is from a lack thereof. The coffee and weed intensify each other and produces a type of cross fade which I have always been fond of. It makes me have incredible visions and fills me with euphoria that is entertaining enough on its own for hours. Lennon told me once that I was easily entertained, the truth of that observation has proven itself stupidly. I wonder how much better off I would be if I gave it all up sooner.

July 10, 2026 11 AM

Things have gotten bad when the younger version of yourself won’t even look at you. She stands at a distance, glaring through space, never acknowledging that she is stratified in time to witness me now. She is so ashamed and disappointed she would rather ignore the truth than think about how I got here. Thus, she is doomed to become me.

Every single day, I give up before I get out of bed, and the only thing that makes me rise is the thought of getting high, that has not changed regardless of the substances at hand. Getting off the tobacco after smoking it all day everyday felt like the ultimate displacement. That was a hard ship to jump off, the ocean was so frigid, the waves unrelenting. However, the tide has been very strong and a current immediately swept me away, I am already far away from that vessel and I have no intention of paddling backwards. These waters have been brutal, the visions which have taken me over have been concerning the average viewer. Tinkerbell smoked himself into a psychosis earlier this year and convinced himself that he was prey. I am the predator in every single scenario I think up, which feels good for me now, but what about the rest of the world later?

I am still so sick. It’s like I’ve been sick all year, since last summer, all my life. Time passes and takes feelings with it. As if one can’t exist without the other. Oh time, do you store feelings so that you may know what you have been? Is your memory the sum of an instantaneous emotional wave ripping through all living organisms? Only time knows now. The passage of time, the passage of feelings, which belongs to the other?

I do not want to pace around my apartment anymore though my legs are ceaseless. I am back to the chair, the Executioness’ throne. It’s not over, just a break, It’s not over, just a break, it’s not over, just a break…

In three days, I have an important appointment downtown.

Jully 11 3:08 PM

It’s been raining today. It’s so crazy how similar this feeling is to cocaine; I guess my anxiety is as strong as all my drugs. Still doing nothing but pacing, smoking, drinking coffee, singing, dancing, and writing to you a bit…But then food enters the system, and I feel quite a bit better. I seem to be unable to eat regular things and have been relying on freezer meals.

My mind feels like my office after Tinkerbell got hot and smashed all my shit in early 2025. Shelf ripped straight out of the wall, chair demolished, everything everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He dug his own grave, set the stage for me to disappear under his nose. Under the guise of a mass organization project after his destructive outburst, I was able to pack all my things in front of him and depart on a random weekday while he was at work.

I have transformed something awful the last few weeks, mostly last few days. My feet ache, the pain resonates through my whole body. It’s like the deep ground fire has revealed a buried engine and through sheer willpower my mind has begun to rev. It does not come without a price, I look noticeably older.

I suppose I have been ignoring my face recently, and every time I do that, I return to a more mature girl and notice how skin ages. It’s hard to notice these changes when you are looking intently every day. If you stop paying attention, you will have to readjust your self-image every time you really look at yourself until the next time. It is not pleasant, though it is less frequent maintenance, and you get used to the experience of relearning your face occasionally. So, which is the answer, to be familiar with oneself or distant? I generally choose familiarity, though shy away from scrutiny these days…

You don’t go back and read the pages… that’s just common sense. You run it through, but when the project is a journal, seemingly unending, when do you pause for consolidation and reflection? It has always been too big of a task; one I seem stuck in perpetual ambition to achieve. So many chopped up documents, amendments, entire narratives begun and abandoned…  

Whatever was the purpose of any of it? That undying question