dawn thoughts

on coming back to life through death.

July 17, 2026.

right now i had just woke up. it was yesterday i promised myself to write in the diary every dawn and today is the first step of making my best of that idea, that promise.

actually, i didn’t feel well from the last midnight. it was two when i had a bad dream, continued by stomachache. i woke up and i couldn’t remember what had caused me the pain. the restaurant food was mild. i don’t know.

did my stomach just learnt to get upset on petty things or came remember a long way of what i ate three-four days back? i was a giant junk eater those days.

what aches most of the time is heart. cause when other parts of your body get ache they pains, but when your heart aches you get feeling. i think my cause of death would be feeling intensive emotions. guy, i almost died. what the fuck?

i woke up and decided not to use phone, but the problem is— it is already starting to imprint inside my nerves and neurons. every time i wake up, i get this stupid thought to see my phone, which is deteriorating my mind. cause, i never wanted that to happen. i wish i had a dream that fast in my mind to come alive while i wake up to manifest and that comes true in my life, i am trying and i will be doing that.

these days i am more self-aware and studied. i am learning about writers and questioning to be them, and in the past days, i can’t take awared thoughts because i eventually overthink them that lead to myocardial pain.

i was so pathetic when i was young, but these days i am learning to know the flow. whatever happens, let it be.

i think why this ungripness in my soul is caused?

—i learnt to give up on being a writer, and if i say this, do not believe me. i learnt to give up showing everyone i am a writer, but deep down no days passes without my rambles on my diary pages. after all, you can’t kill someone with what they live by the most.

“all form of human madness is a form of rebellion on to exist an extensive life through arts.”

i quite do think madness is an extra life, or a life that happened beyond their fate. maybe the art made the artist alive, and the only way it can love through is— the quite obsession a writer come by.

i do think writing is a form of alchemy and necromancy cause it controls the writer in their own spirits. it holds accountability for the writer, for their life and death.

— isai

starting this, i have been thinking to upload more of my journals in the space i have created in ko-fi. it’s the letters from a stranger club. it costs $5 per month, you will receive most of my absurdity there.

thank you for reading ✨