It

Entry by Nathan Rill. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,556 different people.

That thought… that one thought is all that’s letting me hold onto my sense of self right now. Whoever this person was before I took his place, he was not a lucky man. He found something, some secret that he wasn’t supposed to find. A secret hidden from the public, from the world, maybe even from God Himself; but this poor soul found it. I don’t know what it is, I don’t want to think about it, thinking about the secret makes it so much harder to hold on and write this down.

the secert thinking abou out it I can’t focus, it’s starting to affect me physically; I feel hunger that I can’t satisfy, I thirst even as Idrink anythin I can find. I know he hadn’t slept for days before I took the weel for his life; but I’ve come to feer the darkness behind my own eyelids. I can feel it, I can hear it; it’s always there, ever waking moment, even tick-tock of the clock, it’s there; it’s always there. I don’t want o know what it is, I don’t want to know the secret, the secret haunts me; it sings it’s sweet song of lies in my ears and tempts me to think about it and worn it’s way into my mind.

It would stay with me, I know it would; no matter how many lies I jumped into, no mater how far I run from it, it would stay in my mind until it had done to me as it had done to him.

Tempt-tempt-tempt; it’s rinng in my ears; it wants me to think, it wants me to focus on it’s secret existance. Why haven’t I left, why am I still here? I should hav gone, should have lept out of this night mare by now. It’s keeping me here, it’ll hold onto me until mind is gone. But I’m smarter, I’m so so much smarter; it can’t get into a mind that’s not there; see how smart I am? I’l get rid of the mind, Ill make sur it cant get into me I

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,556 different people.

I… I can’t believe I nearly did that. I don’t know who the hell gave this guy a gun, but he doesn’t have it anymore. Maybe he stole it, maybe he had the same ideas I had and was about to blow his brains out before I took over. It doesn’t matter anymore, I’ve gotten some control over my thoughts again and I’m not going to let it beat me. I’ve had some times that were longer than others, this isn’t any different; I’m not going to let it kill me!

I stepped outside today; I don’t know how long it’s been since this guy last saw the sun, but it had to have been a long time from how pale his skin looked. It’s pretty close to my area of time, only a few years more advanced. There’s some rumors of a political tensions here and there, but I didn’t really pay attention to them; it’s becoming an active effort to not think about It. I can feel the secret of it’s existance, the great and terrible truth of what It is constantly niggling in the back of my mind; I can’t wait to leave this behind.

Part of me knows it’s selfis to think like that, that this guy- whomever he is- might actually be feeling sane for the first time in God knows how long somewhere and I want to take that away from him again. but I don’t care right now; I can’t take this, I’m not going to be a martyr for some guy I’ve never met. It’s almost disturbing to know that I can think like this if I’m pushed to this point.

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,556 different people.

It’s been nearly a week. I haven’t slept, I’ve barely eaten; I can feel this body wearing itself out, it’s not going to last much longer. part of me wonders what will happen to me if I died in this body; if I’ll leap into the next one like normal, or if this is it. I haven’t been back outside; it’s not safe anmore. It’s out there; in the faces of those strangers, in the darkness of the alleyways, in the middle of the crowded streets; they can’t see It, they never could, but I see It. I can’t see anything but It; and I still don’t know what It is.

I’m still holding off the secret, I still refuse to think about it now; not out of willpowr, that ran out a long time ago. This is spite; pure and simpe spite. If it does all end here, if this thing kills me by forcing me to live like this, then I want to have something to hold over It. I want to be abl to laugh at It wih my last breath and say that it couldnt make me think about It; its a stupid thought but I dont care. It makes me feel better.

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,556 different people.

Tired I’m so tired. It is still there. It still wants me to think about It. I wont think about It. tired so tired I wonder what will happen to this thing when it die. This journal has away comes with me. Will it come into death to? what is after death? will it be itneresting to write about? will they find it and just toss it out? I dont want them to throw away my journal. so many stories in it they should read it they should know. they should no not to think aout It.

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,557 different people. I am so tired. so ver

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