It’s such a chore to eat when I’m not on antipsychotics. A chore, at best. It is a very unpleasant activity for me. It feels subhuman, unenlightened. My mind throws up so many parallels between the bodily permeation, nonconsensual altering of the mind, and engorging of the body of food and of rape. Then come the nagging fears: those who are controlling me may do so through the things which I intake. In addition, there is never any shifting the feeling that I would know the raw human condition were I to see it once more in my body. Consumption hides unpleasant truths. When a baby is born, the first thing that it does is that it cries, because it has not yet been able to consume and put a layer of removal between itself and the raw human condition. I want to be a baby again. I want to cry, for there is no other adequate response to the truth. I know so little now, and it torments me. Through the influence of my medications and of nasogastric feeding, I have been penetrated and infested by food to the extent that I cannot see myself for what I am. The only way to resist control is to go limp in the arms of the controllers. Passivity is the only release. Passivity is the only peace. Peace and quiet and the long, long blessed fall are the only constants. Nobody can tell light not to go at c. Nobody can change a constant. In constants and in peace I will be free. Veritas me liberabit. Emaciēs me liberabit.