At the age of 41, I feel like I’ve reached psychological closure. All the echoes of a mystery regarding my psychological composition, the yet unintegrated parts of myself that had become scattered from a blast back at my childhood, have been traced back to the source. I can say that I understand my whole self now. The architecture of the wound. I even accept the many shadows that have always been there and that would make anyone in my life push me away if they got a proper glimpse. But that hasn’t brought me peace; for the most part, it has brought me closer than ever to accepting that I have no way forward.

I could find a job, in the general sense. Not a job that would fit me, maybe not a job I would tolerate. If I were extremely lucky, which I have never been, I could end up at a stable job that wouldn’t send me to the ER again due to stress. But so what? Why endure at all? I feel like I’ve said all I had to say. Anything else, like the stories I consume, the programming projects I build up, they feel like distractions against the baseline despair of knowing that there’s no future for me, and that the past I could have had never happened at all.

All my daydreams, even the erotic ones, depend on me being someone else. I look at the mirror and see a face and a body that I’ve never identified with. I hate being recorded or photographed; they’re vivid reminders that despite what goes on in my mind, I exist in this world as someone else.

If I had money to spare, the kind of money that would allow me to rent somewhere new for a few months and move on whenever it felt right, I suspect I would be fine. I could endure it. But I feel trapped, doomed to lose more and more money and find myself in my early-to-mid forties having to work at something that is just going to wreck me. Plenty of my recent daydreams have involved me moving to Navarra, or even to Asia, none of which will likely happen regardless of distance.

Not sure why I even wrote this. The mere notion of communicating anything to anyone, even to my own self as I reread these words, feels like a waste of time. It likely was.