I look back on all my art of him. Mostly remembering why I made what I made. Remembering each era and what I felt like I struggled with, and what I felt like I excelled with.

But now... I worry it was all imagined. I don't experience the flow of time the way I should. I have a thinking disorder, so it doesn't make sense to me. Now and Forever mean the same thing to me. What I'm experiencing immediately is true and everything else is imaginary.

My childhood home is just as imaginary to me as a magical castle in the clouds. I can see both with equal clarity. Yet I know there is no magic castle and I can't go back to my childhood home. While the house is still there, it's been renovated beyond recognition and other people live there. It may as well be a different home.

I look at his selfies and I fear I can't deliberately recall his face without them. But I know I can. I fear i can't hear his voice. But I do.

This is no way to exist. And I'm losing my shit every day just a little bit more.

I hope I can move in with my dad before going inpatient again. I want to give my cats a little more time. I worry about them so much. They don't understand where their daddy went and I can't kept my shit together. But whatever I do, it'll happen after they've finished their lives. I promised Flickie they would be happy. And they will be.