Everything I do lacks an inner experience. It's like I'm presenting the shell and not inhabiting it. People see this as nothing more than trite disassociation, this performative self-loathing which is nothing more than my moralism. I am a Christian. I am Russian. I'm neither of those things, but I often feel that way. I feel like everything has an anterior, meaning that everything will snap back to its cord and all the flowers I've scattered will be made dust of; but that's not poetic, it's trite and it's common. I feel like I want to die to make others happy. I've said before that if I died, I'd rather have that status as a priest that rots through history and is loved in absurd and grotesque acts and deeds. I don't like being alive, I do struggle with dissociative disorder, so nothing I ever say can truly be deep inhabited by psychology. Nothing I say can truly spark a fire in others, otherwise I'm just lying. Don't trust me, I'm pretend.