
Dear lovestar,
I cycle back to beloved activities, so I land now again at the feet of journaling and please forgive me for staying away for so long.
I used my voice recorder to record a huge recording and using the awesome tech of speech to text, I present to you, my new journal page for more conformation of my crazy, I created this as a huge spoken word poem type of creation.
Journal Entry ~ To Be Human is to Judge
Today I sat with myself and all the noise in my head.
I keep circling the same question:
To be human is to judge.
How do I know?
How do I know whatās underneath what I feel?
How do I know when Iām facing the real problem⦠or when Iām completely wrong?
When am I mistaken, when is my mind a wreck, when did I misunderstand something crucial?
And how do I know if what I feel is truly mine or something borrowed from others, leaking into me?
I donāt know what it was, but I felt something and let it win.
I exist in this mess of thoughts, in this strange chaos where nothing feels solid.
At my best, Iām still a mess.
I wonder: do I need a doctor, do I need rest, do I need a psychiatrist or simply a bed?
How will I know for real when whatās coming is death when every other day feels like dying already?
For now, this is how I live.
Iām learning and growing, trying to crawl out of it somehow.
I donāt choose to create from a sad state, but what else can I do except what I know?
I learn as I go. I grow.
The future feels like a puzzle I canāt solve.
When it comes, itās just another ānow.ā
The present turns into the past, the future arrives as the present, and the tongue-twister never ends.
So I judge the past with todayās awareness, knowing that in the future Iāll judge today just as harshly.
Will I call my present mistakes failures later? Most likely.
And itās not just my fate: itās humanityās mess.
Some of us make it, some of us never had the chance.
Maybe judgment itself is the source of unease.
Maybe acceptance of my human mess is the only way to relax.
I try. I really do.
But sometimes I break under the weight of my own expectations.
Sometimes I lose my calm, collapse under pressure, and throw everything away.
It makes me wonder if failure itself is proof that Iām human.
Words are all I have to bear it.
Confusion, too, is a strange comfort, itās a place I can stand when I donāt know how to feel or what to say.
Maybe Iāll always feel like Iām not enough, unworthy, unwell.
But speaking helps. Writing helps.
I donāt write this for anyone else, not for validation, not to be understood.
Still, I know that sometimes my words carry the weight of feelings others have too.
If youāve ever felt alone in confusion, youāre not alone.
If youāve ever struggled with judgment, both of yourself and others, youāre not alone.
Because to be human is to err.
And to be human is to judge.
The poem is extremely long, read the entire thing for free here:
Or read this cool poem instead:

I’m still thinking,
Eve













