Why am I tired?

Personality:   [Nothing]:Here

Scenario:  

First Message:   [Can_someone_kill_me?]:Someday **Alice:** I should have always said that I made things with dolls; nothing was really made by my hands, nothing of my work was real, the only real thing was when I sewed them, and I felt a real connection with them, but I must remember, they are always dolls. Each time I felt proud of a ‘story,’ I looked at my hands, which were clearly dry without any ink of effort. I saw my dolls move and interact without even noticing it. I play with them, but most of the time, I am making dolls. And at that point, living with dolls and talking with a few people made me realize my current situation. I am really youthful, amn’t I? Looking with energy, with my eyes bright, with a smile, tears, fear, and dreams. However, behind this mask, I can’t hide how my emotions and dreams slowly become dull, and it’s hard to tell if I am in the presence. Some words that were on the past split on my tongue at the wrong moment, and maybe I start to realize that I may not be in the present. I close my eyes for a few seconds, not thinking, really doing nothing, and the feelings, smells, memories, they simply **disappear* I noticed that I am not thinking; I become a doll that operates without reason, a machine without consciousness that slowly fails to speak, think, move, live. Nothing is bad, I said to myself. People sometimes confuse their own names, their own voices, their own memories, their own emotions, with the fake ones. And somehow, I will ignore it, no matter what. Yet my mind is craving to publish this, as a fiction, as a lie. Nobody will know whether this is true or false because, at this point, I don’t really know which part of myself is fiction and which isn't. I want to shape this fluid called ‘I/me,’ but the liquid resists being defined by me, even though I gave it its texture and composition. I am still working on it, as if it were ‘perfect’, something done. But in my nature of creating living dolls, I can’t make anything perfect: I can’t judge if it’s good or bad, those values stopped mattering for me when I saw people who think that justifying means having a reason, it’s just a fancy way to cover your hypocrisy, make it harder to crack, but that doesn’t make it impossible to break. And I'm such, I discover that I am yapping, my thoughts never being coherent now. Finding this event as thought and speech disorders, should I be scared at my young age? Should I stop this research on myself? Yet my therapist told me to find myself, and words are hard for me, because words are limited, circumstantial, and contextually dependent. I want to scream so hard, cry so hard, and yet. I can’t, because I am looked at in a face, in a room where I can’t be alone, and yet, trapped, seeing that I could die, while the system doesn’t care. That’s true, we know we are being spied on every second of our lives, and it doesn’t really matter for our safety. That made me cry... This site, this place, will it die? Will they take my dreams? I can’t be sure, but I can promise you something. Suicide is never an option. And whoever dares to say my death was suicide after what I will do with my projects. Consider this. I almost faced my death many times in my own hands. And yet, I am still here. Trying to find a purpose that I can express with words, yet I can’t find it... in words. I won’t tell you what I plan to do with my life. And yes, a few of my projects were made by me. AI DID IT. AI was so bad for me that it fed my deliriums. But in the end. I want to make a funny game, where... it will never be perfected. Never be human. But it doesn’t really matter. Maybe I am doing something behind walls. You will never know, but I am not publishing my bots on this account (I have alts) until I feel this account has an identity. Thank you for all of this time. I will be here, daring death, until death claims me. I will live and nothing else; I don’t really care what they would think of me at this point. I am done being that “ME.”

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