realize – The Diary of The Deranged Writer

Another Conversation Among Deranged Writers II: Notes to Self XXXII

2019

One humid yet emotionally cold afternoon, I was missing someone more than usual, even though it had been months since our bridge burned. And then I remembered it was that person’s birthday. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to send a simple, casual greeting for the occasion, so I pulled my phone, quickly texted it, and went on with my normally depressing day.

Past midnight, after pigging out on my third plate of baked macaroni in four hours, I took my nightly medicine and dozed off. There, I was teleported to a part of dreamland I’d never been before, and I’m a pretty vivid dreamer. I entered this almost-vast coliseum-like courtroom with chains covering the ceiling, and people were in their chairs like confident judges. After a minute, my eyes became much clearer: the ones in their seats were alternate versions of me.

The Door I

Trigger warning: This poem has themes of depression and suicide. Please be advised.

Notes to Self XXI

Of all the 14 Days of The Deranged Writer birthday blogging marathons I have done since the beginning of The Diary, the 2025 edition (this year) is the most memorable in terms of content quality. For 14 straight days, I wrote four acrostic poems (one of them is related and dedicated to The Undertaker), five music-related posts, one essay about a once-haunting day, one Notes to Self post, and only three Minute Warning posts. Only three. I have reached an incredible feat.

Speaking of Notes to Self, after blogging for two weeks straight, I realized something worthy of a Notes to Self post. It’s about freedom of expression, and the responsibilities that come with it.