The room is shaking. I know it's not actually shaking, but I swear to God it's shaking. I can feel it deep within me, and even though I know it's physically impossible that the room is shaking, how can I feel it? I can't. I can't make sense of it anymore. I can't make sense of anything anymore. What is sense. Then, then I forget it all. That's why I'm writing it down. This is NOT a diary. I hate diaries. They're nonsense. What's the point of them? If you feel something, then feel it don't chronicle it. I'm getting off topic and this is starting to sound like a diary. But no, this is a log. A log of things that are happening to me. Phenomenons. I call them that because I don't know what else to call them. Things that are happening in the reality of my mind, but things that can't really be happening. But if they're in my mind aren't they real? I don't understand anymore. Then I forget it all. That's why I'm writing it down. Because if I don't write it down, I feel the sensations again, then it feels like dejavu, and I hate dejavu. There is no feeling worse than it. Because it feels like a paradigm shift has occured, and I lose touch with reality for a while. Then again, these days it feels like I'm out of touch with reality more than I'm in touch with it. 

I sit on my bed and look at my corrugated ceiling, and for some reason it’s fascinating me. The grooves are supposed to be random, they are just tiny points that make up my ceiling, but it feels like there should be more to them. So I start to pick out patterns within the little grooves, because I’m determined to prove that there is more to them than it seems. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I feel like I have to continue to do it. I’ve been concentrating so hard, and for so long, looking for something that I start to grind my teeth in frustration. But as soon as I do it, I have to stop because the sound is like sandpaper in my ears. I shut my eyes momentarily, but the image of the ceiling is still in my head, and now the look of it disgusts me. It’s almost like I can feel the rough texture of the prickled grooves against my skin and the thought of it is so agitating that I start to grind my teeth before I immediately stop myself. I quickly sit up in my bed and lower my head to my knees to steady myself. What is wrong with me, why has this been happening to me. I need to rock myself gently to keep my mind steady. This has been happening so much lately and I don’t understand why, and the lack of knowing is the most frustrating and debilitating feeling I’ve ever had.

Like everything else I experience, I have convinced myself that this is normal. That this mixture of feelings within me is something everyone experiences, but maybe no one talks about it. Maybe I should talk to someone about it, but I wouldn’t know how. I don’t know what I’m feeling to describe it. It feels like someone has taken all of my insides and rewired them. They have been rewired in a way that everything is the opposite of what it used to be, and everything is not where it’s supposed to be. But how do you explain that to someone? How am I supposed to know if this is normal if I don’t know what normal is supposed to feel like. I shake off these thoughts that have become so frequent in my mind and I pull out my journal. It’s something new I’ve been doing, and sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing that steadies my heart beat and let’s me breathe normally again. I write, most often about nothing at all. Sometimes I try to write what the re-wiring is doing to me, but usually that’s too frustrating so I end up tearing out the page instead. Sometimes I write, because if I don't I'll forget what the feelings were like. So I write, and I feel my nerves relax. But when I look at the page, I realize I have simply been writing the word “write” over and over again. But I don’t stop once I realize it. All I know is that the pen in my hand feels good. So I continue until I have filled the entire page. Then I stop. I place the journal underneath my bed. It is very much a cliché to hide a journal under my bed, but I don’t know where else to put it. I have no secrets in it. In fact, I wish someone would stumble upon it and read it. Maybe then they can tell if everything in it is normal, or if it’s like nothing they've seen before. I’m not sure which of the two would disturb me more. But my disturbance isn’t what worries me. It’s everyone else’s. That's why I hide it. I don’t know what I’d say to anyone who looked through its pages.