As I grapple with my identity amidst family turmoil, I seek to understand the deeper connections that bind us together.

A dream about Buddhism opens into a long page about divided faith, revenge on James and Ayeshah, complex PTSD, anorexia, Sri Lanka's corrupt culture, and Thilanga's reputation, before Gangs of London leaves the night...

I wrote this day in a blur of heat, insomnia, food obsession, drug talk, and Trump-era self-mythology, with the whole thing reading like overstimulation trying to pass for momentum.

The day was a volatile pile of notes about Palestine, Zoroastrian grievance, family money, revenge, coercion, identity hatred, and fantasies of control, which is why it feels less like a diary and more like a raw danger dump.

The day was dominated by an islandwide power cut, retention worries, hiring, and messy internal deal politics, with me trying to hold the company together while recalculating loyalty, commissions, and who still mattered.

I moved through password panic, hacking fear, company-name frustration, flashbacks, abuse fallout, protest reactions, and deal-minded chatter, then ended the day inside Don Juan and music again.

Good Friday felt split between polite greetings and darker private fear, as I tried to hold trust together while worrying about Zoom, business refusal, porn relapse, and my own depression getting worse.

I spent the day craving cake and better food, doubting Zoom, juggling the Mark Webber meeting, and letting space and comfort fantasies briefly cut through flashbacks and family resentment.

Rejecting CEO and CMO hopefuls set off a much uglier day of contempt, rage, family-name politics, and private hatred, even while I kept telling myself I was just protecting the company early.

I spent the day pouring out Iran and Islam takes, then crashing into PTSD, depression, porn coping, and Christian music, with the burnout becoming clearer the more I kept posting through it.

I coped with nCoV anxiety the way I often did then, by turning to food, ritual, and belief, while trying to convince myself that comfort, faith, and appetite could keep the panic contained.

A bad dream and old resentments stayed with me through the day, while I kept trying to steady myself with calls, plans, and the hope that one or two business openings might still break my way.

Insomnia opened the door to deal schemes, night spirals, and sabotage thinking, with the whole day shaped by overthinking and an inability to switch off.

I numbed out with Fleabag, doomscrolling, and old memories, while politics, online conflict, and my own darker loops kept pulling the day away from any real rest.

I spent the day trying to hold the line against violence and chaos, then drifted through war anxiety, race arguments, and a long chain of late-night reading I couldn’t stop.