《The Fractured Self》 December 8 Lately, I¡¯ve been feeling really tired of studying. It¡¯s hard to keep pushing through when everything about the future feels so uncertain. I¡¯m not sure where I fit into all of this, and it¡¯s a bit overwhelming. I keep wondering if I¡¯m on the right path, or if there¡¯s something else out there for me. I know I¡¯m not the only one who feels this way, and sometimes it helps just to share it. Looking for my place in this world... I think we all are, in one way or another.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. December 10 Today, I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of being disconnected from myself, like I was watching life from a distance, unable to fully step into it. I caught myself depersonalizing, my sense of self slipping away, as if I were fading into the background. It¡¯s hard to describe, but the feeling was there, heavy and persistent, like a constant pull that kept me from truly engaging with everything around me. I took a moment to look up at the sky and watched the birds as they flew, their shapes shifting and transmuting as they glided with the wind. It was almost like they were morphing, becoming something else with every beat of their wings. There was something calming about it, like watching a dance that had no need for explanation. The way their forms changed made me think of how I, too, feel like I¡¯m constantly shifting, trying to fit into spaces that sometimes don¡¯t seem to have room for me.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. But then, there¡¯s that nagging feeling of loneliness. It¡¯s not just being alone physically, but that deeper sense of isolation, the kind where you feel like no one really understands the way you think or communicate. I feel different in ways that aren¡¯t always easy to explain, and sometimes, I¡¯m ashamed of how I express myself, like I¡¯m not getting it right, like my way of communicating is too much or too little. I wish I could speak in a way that felt more natural, but instead, I often stumble over my words or hold back altogether. I wish there were someone who could see through all of that¡ªsomeone who could just understand, without needing explanations. But for now, it¡¯s just me, observing the world around me, feeling a bit like an outsider. December 11 Today was quite an ordinary day, but it sparked some interesting thoughts. I went to the supermarket and found myself drawn to two women packing their groceries. As I watched them, I started imagining what their lives might be like. I pictured their home¡ªhow they might share laughter over dinner, argue about what to watch on TV, or even have heart-to-heart talks over a cup of tea. I wondered about their routines, their favorite meals, and the small moments that make a house feel like a home. It was a curious exercise, thinking about how different life could be if I were someone else. The mundane act of grocery shopping suddenly became a window into a life I don¡¯t know. It reminded me of how we all have our unique stories, even in the simplest of tasks. Today was just a reminder of what I wish I could experience. I need to keep searching for my own moments of happiness. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. December 12 Today was a whole day of assessments, but it went pretty well. The pressure was so much that there was hardly any space to give voice to those painful thoughts that usually accompany me. But of course, as always, here they are again, as soon as I had a little free time. It seems impossible to escape them, even in moments when I¡¯m busy with other things. Still, the tiredness from today gave me a slight sense of relief, as if, for a brief moment, my mind found a bit of a break. It¡¯s cold now, and I¡¯m here on the couch, trying to relax a bit after a long day. It¡¯s one of those moments when, honestly, I¡¯d like to feel the comfort of a hug from someone who truly loves me, someone who accepts me entirely, with all my imperfections. That, to me, would be something very valuable, but I also know it¡¯s something rare... and maybe even unattainable. Thinking about it is both good and painful. Dreaming of it, imagining what it would be like, makes me feel a mix of hope and fear. Fear that it might never happen, that perhaps what I¡¯m looking for is too far out of reach.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. December 13 Today was a difficult day. I woke up with a massive headache, as if the painful words that fill me, those that no longer have space inside, were trying to come out somehow, at any cost. I felt overwhelmed, as though my body was carrying the full weight of an unsettled mind. I didn¡¯t want to go outside¡ªnot for anything¡ªbut I made the effort, just for the dog. As we walked, he was on his leash, and seeing him like that made my heart sink. He, who loves to run free and explore without limits, was confined, and I couldn¡¯t help but feel guilty about it. Perhaps because, in some way, I see a reflection of myself in him: as if something invisible yet inescapable is holding me back too. It¡¯s strange how, sometimes, the emotions we project onto animals say more about us than they do about them. The streets are filled with Christmas lights. Twinkling lights glimmer in windows, decorated trees appear on every balcony, and even music fills the air¡ªthe same melodies, year after year. Today, I noticed the televisions I could glimpse through windows, all synchronized in the same choreography of ads for random products. And the solemnity with which the words were spoken! The voiceover, full of importance, turned ordinary products into promises of something extraordinary. I found myself laughing quietly, unsure if I was laughing at the naivety of it all or at myself for trying to find meaning where I already know there is none.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. In a way, these lights and decorations are beautiful. They are a collective attempt to create something special. But I feel disconnected from it all, as if these lights belong to a world I cannot access at this moment. Still, I can¡¯t help but wonder: will I ever feel that genuine joy again, the kind that so many people seem to find naturally this time of year? For now, I can only focus on the simple act of continuing to walk with my dog, a small gesture of persistence. December 14 Getting out of bed this morning was the first struggle, the weight of the world pressing me down before I even opened my eyes. I tried to distract myself, diving into my studies, filling my head with information in an attempt to outrun the thoughts that threaten to consume me. But no matter how much I focus, the feeling is still there, lurking in the background. The more I try to avoid it, the stronger it gets. It¡¯s like entropy¡ªmy mind, once organized, is breaking down bit by bit, every distraction only a temporary fix. The weight of words, of memories, presses on me, making each step feel heavier than the last. I try to convince myself that I¡¯m fine, that if I keep moving, I¡¯ll be okay. But deep down, I know I¡¯m not.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. By the end of the day, I feel like I¡¯ve barely made it through. I¡¯ve kept my mind busy, but the silence between tasks is when the thoughts return with a vengeance. I¡¯ve spent the whole day trying not to fall apart, but the pieces keep slipping away. December 15 The dog licked me first thing in the morning. I was still caught between sleep and reality, my body heavy, my eyes trying to stay closed. He, with his innocent joy, was the first to realize that the day had begun. Does he like me, or does he just need me? Or maybe he likes me because he needs me? I don''t know. I wonder if it''s the same with me. Do I really like people, or am I just waiting for something in return? Is there such a thing as a relationship without selfishness? I covered myself with the blankets again, as if that could stop time, stop the questions. For months, I had a reason to get out of bed. Now, I only have the weight of everything I try to ignore and a reason to let myself be consumed by nothingness. What¡¯s going on inside me becomes more confusing each day. Does he understand this? The dog, so simple, so direct. He doesn¡¯t judge me, but I get stuck in my own issues. Deep down, I wonder if he has any understanding of my doubts. Or if he only sees me the way I see him, both of us searching for something we can¡¯t find. Then I return to a thought: Does the idea of becoming a burden to me bother him? Or is that just something I created to protect myself from the pain of feeling alone? The truth is, he could never be a burden to me, no matter what happens. Sometimes, I feel like the whole world is a burden, but not him... he¡¯s here, without asking questions, without expecting answers, just existing.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. But what if those two entities, those two realities, aren¡¯t as separate as they seem? What if there¡¯s a connection, even if invisible? How do we perceive those interconnections? Are they real or just in our minds, made of associations that are nothing more than memories and reflections projected into the present? And music... how could that express it? Are the associations we make genuine, or just created, fed by something that has no origin in the real world? How can reality, in the end, be what we see or what we feel? What if, deep down, everything we see is just a distorted reflection of what we already carry inside? These questions seem to grow inside me as I try to understand what I feel and why I feel what I feel. But maybe, in the end, I just need more silence. More of that silence that only exists in the now my mind insists on rejecting. December 16 I felt the sun on my face today¡ªa gentle warmth, like a distant embrace, soothing and unhurried. The winter sun has this unique gift: it gives just enough, a mild heat, comforting without overwhelming. It¡¯s a fleeting sensation, yet it lingers, reminding me of the doubts that slowly gather within me, like tiny pebbles scattered along a path. I feel like one of those pebbles¡ªsmall, almost insignificant. The kind that might annoy someone stepping on it but never big enough to make anyone stumble. I¡¯m there, noticeable but only barely, making little impact yet still carrying this odd weight of questioning my own existence.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. It¡¯s strange, this paradoxical feeling of being present but not truly seen. The doubts pile up, pressing down on me, yet I remain light enough to be overlooked, like that pebble. Too small to matter but large enough to keep wondering about my place in the grand scheme of things. December 17 They¡¯re always talking about you. I turn the music up, trying not to hear, trying not to be devoured by their conversations. But they do it on purpose. The words creep in, hiding in the spaces between noise, only to attack me in the silences. And I notice the glances, the way they stare at me when they say your name. They talk about you with the cruel ease of those who know more than they should¡ªor pretend to. The allusions come in a calculated tone, always treading the fine line between provocation and coincidence. I try to ignore it, but it¡¯s hard. It¡¯s hard to pretend this is normal, to pretend that your absence isn¡¯t visible in me. We all pretend. But the truth seeps down my face, saturates my every gesture. Your absence doesn¡¯t hide: it walks beside me, hangs over everything I do.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Why am I not with you now? Why don¡¯t we walk together anymore? Silent questions echo in their eyes. They¡¯re down there, talking about you, dissecting what we never shared but that, somehow, everyone seems to know. These are looks that question and, at the same time, declare certainties I don¡¯t know the origin of. And here I am, with the music blaring, trying to drown it all out. But the truth is, your absence screams louder than any sound I can bear. December 18 It was you today, wasn¡¯t it? It was enough for me to come home and wish that the hot water from the shower would wash away my existence. Let the water run over my body, so much water, some of it with sodium chloride, of course. The kind that flows carelessly. I¡¯m so tired. So much exhaustion, each step I take seems to be in the direction of nothing. So tired of this festive environment. So tired of dreaming, waking up, and being in a dream again. In my dreams, he is still alive, but I always know he will die. And when I¡¯m awake, I know it too. But the pain isn¡¯t as much when I only think I am awake. In the classroom, programming. We are not many students, and I have my headphones, as always. Not only for the music, but also because of all the noise in the background. I read that neurotypical people can make the rumble disappear, but for me, it¡¯s always there. It¡¯s like an ongoing hum, a constant buzz that fills my head and makes it hard to focus on anything else. It¡¯s exhausting. I try to drown it out with music, but sometimes even that doesn¡¯t help. It¡¯s just there, always. And in this place, surrounded by noise and chatter, it feels like I¡¯m suffocating, but no one can hear it.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°Are you going to the Christmas dinner?¡± ¡ª always the same question. But he wanted me to go, didn¡¯t he? He looked at me differently today. Sometimes he looks at me like that, but maybe it¡¯s just me wanting it to be so. But I could swear he wanted to. ¡°It would do you good,¡± but maybe that¡¯s just the excuse, right? Because it seems to me there¡¯s a slight difference. Does he feel any real connection with me? But it can¡¯t be, it¡¯s all temporary. December 20 Each line of code I write, each note I play, there is something of you. In every word, in every movement, even in the loneliest moments, I feel your presence. Perhaps not in physical form, but it¡¯s there, as strong as a silent shadow. The denial of you, and everything that reminds me of you, is almost tangible¡ªa pain that fills every part of my being, that takes shape even in the blank space between my thoughts. I don¡¯t know how I can keep going, how I can wake up and exist without you. I¡¯ve tried to keep my mind occupied, to disguise the longing with a thousand other things, but it always comes back, relentless. Your name, whispered in the cracks of my thoughts, makes everything seem more intense, more urgent. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The pain, it arrives with the same intensity and persistence, dragging with it the weight of every second. Sometimes, it feels like the world around me spins faster, as if time were a succession of moments shattering, breaking everything that could have been. That Christmas song, repeated like an echo, only makes the longing sharper. And I can¡¯t take it anymore... The exhaustion of the pain takes over me. You¡¯re everywhere, in every corner, in every instant. Even the last presentation of the year wasn¡¯t enough to push away that weight. In the middle of it all, the pain decided to escape from me¡ªand I couldn¡¯t make it come back. I tried, but it trapped me, it paralyzed me. I didn¡¯t want the pain to show itself to you, didn¡¯t want you to know how much it affects me. So, I turned back. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas before leaving, but deep down, I don¡¯t know if that still matters to you. December 22 As the hours passed, the landscape around me became increasingly mountainous. I felt a growing desire to simply be with myself, away from the incessant pull into conversations. How monotonous... always the same words, the same tired rhythms. What exhaustion. All I want is peace, but it feels like an unattainable luxury. The noise of the people around me, their raised voices, the ceaseless cacophony... everything seems to conspire against the tranquility I seek. Even with so many people, more and more, constantly appearing from all sides and demanding my attention, you continue to haunt me. It¡¯s like a vicious cycle, an endless repetition. I long for silence. A space where I can just be, without the constant invasion of this noise that wears me down.Stolen story; please report. December 23
Why am I always torn between the need to be accompanied and the desire to be alone? There are moments when I long for company, for someone to fill the silence, but soon after, I find myself overwhelmed. The noise, the relentless chatter, the pressure to engage in endless conversations¡ªit leaves me drained. I just want to be alone, to think, to exist without interruption or expectation. I¡¯ve been reflecting on how they seem to get irritated so easily. What drives this constant frustration with the smallest things? A misplaced word, a minor inconvenience, or even the way something is done differently than they¡¯d like¡ªit all becomes a source of annoyance. It¡¯s relentless, this cycle of irritation. Nothing seems to be simply ¡°okay.¡± Everything is criticized, dissected, turned into a reason for dissatisfaction.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. It¡¯s exhausting, this constant tension. They never seem able to just let things slide, to relax and let the moment be. Instead, it¡¯s a constant search for flaws, a relentless pursuit of something to be upset about. And I wonder if it¡¯s me¡ªif I¡¯m the one who¡¯s not cut out for this. Maybe I¡¯m the one who struggles to navigate these dynamics, to find a way to belong without losing myself. I feel so tired, worn out by the monotony of it all. Each day feels like a replica of the last¡ªnothing changes, nothing improves. The same cycles, the same frustrations, the same feeling of being stuck. It¡¯s like walking through an endless fog, searching for a way out but only finding more of the same. I try to push through, to make it feel different, but the weight of it all is too much.
I wish I could escape this loop, but where would I go? How can I escape myself? December 24
A dinner. Voices colliding, sentences repeating, all demanding to be heard. All talking. All shouting. None listening. None. And this smell of smoke¡­ The TV is on. The same ads. The same voices. The same songs. Always the same songs. They repeat. They hammer my ears. They echo. And they¡¯re loud, so loud they crush any attempt to think. And this smell of smoke¡­ They accuse me. Say it¡¯s my fault. Say the smoke is mine. Say I¡¯m distracted. Say I look tired. They say. They always say. They criticize. Always criticize. Voices attacking me, voices suffocating me, voices tearing at me. They repeat. They repeat. Always the same voices. This smoke. This smell. This smell of frying, of smoke, of criticism. This smoke. This smoke. Again, the ad. Again, the bells. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
But I just want this theater to end, for the curtain to fall, to transform into a blanket and wrap around me. To let me feel this pain tightening in my chest. But this smell, smoke, and frying¡­ Again, the ad. Again, the bells. December 25 The stars are so visible tonight, as if they decided to exist with more intensity. I lie on the ground, looking at them, just observing the constellations of thoughts fading away, until I feel myself falling into the sky. (Do you remember when we talked about the stars, when the world was full of things yet to say, when time bent and left us alone?)If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. So many points puncturing the darkness, comforting my pain, that ridiculous presence, so habitual it goes unnoticed. (The sky was beautiful because your eyes had contemplated it.) To reiterate its insistence is to cover it with a veil, it is to belittle its meticulous and piercing wound. December 26 What a cold day it was today. A cold that froze my very bones, stretching across decades to petrify the light¡­ Sharp and cutting, it tore through the sickly warm puffs of air that the old heater, filled with dust. The despair of the appliance was almost palpable, like Sisyphus, unable to halt the spread of the icy splinters reaching even into the future. My fingers had already been manacled by the treacherous invader, typing clumsily, delivering instructions that were always incomplete, always insufficient. There I was, struggling against inertia, against my own shadows. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.Every keystroke felt like a scream into the void, an attempt to shape something tangible in a world that insists on unraveling. Each lost word¡­ Always someone new appearing, always someone realizing I¡¯m not worth their time after all. An echo repeating itself in goodbyes that were never spoken. What for, anyway? Why try to find meaning in threads that snap before they can even be tied? December 27 The world was falling apart once more. And the girl of pain felt herself slipping through splinters of putrid matter. She was nauseated by the speed at which everything was disintegrating. She knew it wouldn''t last forever, that she would eventually fall off the thin line she was treading. So methodically had she filled every corner of her thoughts, so diligently had she occupied her moments, that the shock was greater when she saw the first fragments of reality tearing, caught in her gestures. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! For a long time now, she wanted to convince herself that she wasn¡¯t entangled in the days. But everything fell apart, leaving only one image, always the same, to haunt her.