After yesterday's snowing this is my today morning path to the outdoor toilet. At some spots there was a knee-deep layer of fresh snow. Also, writing sentences of human words hurts. I do it anyway, for a little bit. For most the time I'm back to my some sort of personality disorder, dating back to early childhood, I remember occasionally collapsing to a state when I was totally unresponsive to any attempts at communication, just laying still staring at the roof and waiting, waiting, waiting, hoping that if I wait long enough somehow my mind would shut down. It feels really unnecessary, and a stupid idea to tell anything like this. It feels bad, sad and counterproductive to communicate with any human being. I know there are no rational arguments, this is not anything like a decision of mine, this is just a dysfunctional mental state I find myself in. And then I write this anyway, feeling even more bad remembering all the times earlier in my life when I have made the mistake of attempting to communicate how I feel inside, and receiving either a blank response, or other people outright denying, saying "that can't be true!" as if they knew better what I can really feel inside myself. (And I hope one doesn't need to be a Sherlock to see some kind of connection to the way mr. Lavrov speaks, just outright denying a mass of direct eye-witness reports. It makes me feel sick.)