Entry 1:

Journals of a Paranoid Schizophrenic

My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. It lags—like a corrupted interface. 

I’ll think I moved, swear I saw my arm extend, but then glance down and see it just… hanging there. 

Dead weight. 

This isn’t muscle memory. This is them rerouting my commands. 

Glitches in the signal. 

Now it’s my eyes—one sees what the other won’t. My left eye can’t keep up with the right anymore—

light trails behind things, smearing into static. 

Like my vision is buffering reality.

Could just be exhaustion.

Not the kind you sleep off.

The kind that seeps into you when time collapses and people start trading identities mid-sentence.

They do that now. All the time.

People in my life keep… merging. 

Like corrupted files that overlap. Their voices glitch. Their faces twist into others. 

One minute it’s her, then him, then no one. 

Shapeshifters. 

Or actors. Or avatars. They never say.

Even the days loop now. 

I stopped asking what day it was after they gave me three different answers in one afternoon. 

How am I supposed to track time when time won’t stay still?

Maybe this is all garbage.

Maybe no one will ever hear this.

Actually—good.

Because if they do, they’ll probably flag it. Probably already have. Probably scanning my voice now for trigger words to justify another adjustment. 

Another visitor. Another “wellness check.”

Whatever.

It’s not like anyone’s actually listening. Not really. 

I talk, and people flinch like I barked. 

The words feel sticky on my tongue—like I’m saying things I shouldn’t know. 

Maybe I am. 

Maybe I hear things they don’t because I’m supposed to. 

Or maybe they all hear it too and pretend they don’t.

I don’t know which is worse.

Sometimes I get this surge. This pressure behind my teeth. And I want to scream the whole pattern out loud. 

The maps. 

The cycles. 

The way they all follow the same behavioral code, like NPCs on a script loop. 

But I don’t. 

I don’t because I know they’re watching for that exact moment.

Still, I hate the games they play.

And I hate more that I keep playing them.

I tell myself it’s strategy. Blend in. Smile. Nod. 

Pretend I don’t notice the camera behind the air vent or the doubled reflection in the mirror. 

Sometimes I even laugh at their jokes. 

Sometimes I like them. Even if I know they’re lying.

They’re all I’ve got.

I don’t even remember meeting most of them. 

My memories feel shuffled. 

Rearranged by someone who wanted to test my reaction. Like some sick social experiment. 

Some days I’ll get flashes—snapshots they let me keep—but they’re always missing context. Like they tore out the page and left only the caption.

And just when I start to forget completely—

they return what was stolen.

Same image. 

New face in the background.

Smiling.

Just to fuck with me.