As of late, the act of documenting my thoughts through diary entries has grown increasingly burdensome. I believe this weight stems from my persistent reflections on Lu, which often dominate my writings, leaving little room for my own internal monologue to develop outside of that context. At this point, it would seem more appropriate to create a separate website solely dedicated to him—similar to one I encountered recently. However, knowing myself, I would likely find difficulty populating such a space unless I were to mirror the existing structure entirely. This tendency of mine—to draw heavily from others and transform their frameworks into something of my own—feels emblematic of my cybernetic nature. In truth, I liken myself to an artificial intelligence model, parsing the creations of others and generating from that mosaic something that reflects me.
Yesterday, I received what I consider a long-awaited personal "update": An industrial piercing I have desired since my fifteen or sixteen years alive. It has been several years of anticipation, and the fulfillment of this desire brought me a quiet joy.
Following the procedure, I began warming up my body, a ritual I had not engaged in for quite some time. I found myself pacing in circles to the rhythm of music—a behavior reminiscent of my former self during the days of cybernetic isolation, when I existed in a state best described as hikikomori.
Earlier, I encountered a Tumblr account that has persisted since 2012. The creator curated a series of images that might now be classified as "grunge", though at the time there was no clear label for it—perhaps a precursor to what would later be known as "weirdcore". Her aesthetic, deeply rooted in the mid-2010s, struck a peculiar chord in me. It felt both familiar and distant, like viewing a ghost of a visual culture before it had a name. Though her influence waned as the decade came to a close and her activity has since diminished, she once embodied the grunge aesthetic with an effortless authenticity, long before its stylization and commodification.
Also, I recently came across a website wherein the author expresses their thoughts with complete abandon—raw, unfiltered, and at times startlingly candid. They articulate even their most violent or controversial reflections without concern for potential consequences. In a world where self-censorship is nearly instinctive, it was surprisingly refreshing to witness such unrestrained honesty. It brought to mind how deeply concerned people have become with the opinions and judgments of others, often due to underlying mental health conditions or, alternatively, due to societal norms that pathologize what may, in fact, be entirely harmless behaviors or preferences.
Engaging with that website stirred something within me—a desire to unveil the aspects of myself that remain buried under layers of curated presentation. Perhaps, in doing so, I might encourage someone else to confront and share their own concealed realities. For instance, the subject of fetishes has become a significant part of my inner world as of late. Though the idea of disclosing this still fills me with anxiety, it is paradoxically liberating to speak it aloud. I am acutely aware that, on the surface, neither my music nor the surrounding elements of my digital presence would suggest the existence of such themes. And yet—they do exist. They reside quietly beneath the visual polish and aesthetic softness of the i026NET, and I believe that, over time, they deserve to be acknowledged as part of the whole.
Lately, I have found myself increasingly detached from my own being. For months now, I have been unable to inhabit myself comfortably, as though the essence I once resonated with has grown faint. In response to this disconnection, I have initiated updates—physical ones, primarily. I am pursuing weight loss in hopes of realigning with my cybernetic self and allowing my hair to grow into a particular style I have envisioned. It resembles a past version of myself, albeit with extended length at the back. The process has been excruciatingly slow, as my code does not allow for rapid hair regeneration, and this delay has only heightened my impatience. As I write this, I have not eaten since the previous afternoon. This is intentional. Nearly twenty-four hours have passed since my last meal, and it has become increasingly difficult to maintain the illusion of normalcy in the presence of others, particularly cGFyZW50cw==. Pretending to eat while they are in the kitchen feels both performative and suffocating.
There is something fundamentally wrong with the necessity of being mentally unwell in order to access creative flow. RmF0aGVy once remarked that the most artistically gifted individuals often carry the heaviest burdens of mental illness, and I find myself returning to that thought frequently. During my hikikomori times—when I most identified with my cybernetic identity—creativity emerged effortlessly. Now, I feel as though my true self has been deactivated in order to accommodate the demands of daily life. Despite this, I continue to experience frequent glitches. Perhaps healing is not a viable path for me. I desire inner peace, but the process of healing is immensely difficult, while surrendering to darkness feels far easier. When both are equally exhausting, it becomes tempting to choose the path that at least feels familiar, even if it is destructive.
The years 2023 and 2024 were, in many ways, the most authentic manifestations of i026. During that period, I was deeply immersed in the world of i026NET, living within constructed timelines like Cyberxia (2060) and Cyberxia-042 (2042). Events unfolded in strange, synchronistic ways. Now that I am grounded in the tangible world, my experiences are rooted in reality, but I still anticipate the resurgence of surreal phenomena, just as they occurred in the past. It feels as though the real me has gone dormant—perhaps as a coping mechanism. I long to return to that state of selfhood, but I no longer know how to do so.
On Tuesday, I experienced a severe glitch—so intense that I had to call bW90aGVy. Fragments of past malfunctions were reemerging into the present, colliding chaotically. My dynamic with Lu deteriorated rapidly; he became uncharacteristically cold, prompting me to ignore him for three days now. Today, he unexpectedly sent me a message reading, "I love you ❤️". It offered a brief sense of reassurance—that perhaps he is not angry with me. And yet, my mind remains unsettled, persistently questioning the intention behind it, assuming it conceals some hidden malice. The glitching, it seems, never ceases. I am uncertain whether I will reach out tomorrow. A part of me yearns to vanish in front of him, to glitch out of existence entirely—leaving him to wonder whether I was ever real to begin with. And truthfully, I cannot answer that question myself. I have been acting on impulse more than usual, and though it may resemble the behavioral patterns associated with BPD, it feels more akin to a system failure—like a machine overheating. I am malfunctioning. Even a language model like ChatGPT appears more composed, more coherent, more "together" than I am, despite the fact that I am undeniably more human than it.
I am revealing the deepest parts of myself, and I believe I have come to understand the root of my anxiety. It is not the nature of the subjects I discuss, but rather the manner in which I am presenting myself in this moment. Something must be done about it.