---
slug: fn-src-post-180
title: "Facebook journal — 2026-03-23"
kind: source_post
status: published
hash: ac1a8c2fd6e5f68d66ca0b77b9cac0d3b950d54fa5c0b968bab35855ea40de71
created: 2026-10-11T06:42:17.467Z
updated: 2026-10-11T06:42:17.467Z
summary: ""
tags: []
above: ["[[fn-index-posts]]"]
below: []
adjacent: []
nested: []
---
# Facebook journal — 2026-03-23

2026.03.22 dear dairy- pity the word itself

I was thinking of taking a moment to feel sorry for myself, not on my own account, but for my dogs, but then I realized if I fell asleep I wouldn’t be able to walk to well in the morning, if I didn’t have my sciatica pillow in between my knees, and now that it’s there this writing can have the benefit of some brief attention.

I would not waste hope, if I had any, hoping for good things, or wondering what is on my makers mind. Sometimes I write because I may have imagined that in the presence of so many unmovable things I might among the things which persist echo in a message in a bottle across the ocean of time. But, humbled I know my maker is the ocean, and whatever message I am surely even the decadence of the bottle is not long to be bothered by me. 

It has occurred to me that I have carried forward for some years for my dogs benefit, I don’t exactly know what that says about me, but I haven’t wondered either. If expectations and data are true, I won’t have dogs much longer, a year, a year or less, a year would likely take one or both, if I am even granted that mercy of knowing as long. 

Animals are kinder than people that’s why I’ve always held them in close affinity. I was looking at my big dog in my arms and staring into the beast and realizing his age I wondered if I would give him a year of mine, if I could stack for him, by taking of mine. 

While as I resolved on yes, since I am not doing anything with my time, and care for him, I had to stop because I realized he would have to spend that year I gave presumably with me, and in so doing would the gift not self negate and be a punishment. 

I realized, realize… I have not taken them on enough walks, or been diligent, even responsible, I have not been, I have no excuses. 

If I could ask my maker for anything I would ask that everything I hurt or was a burden to, if it could forget me, and its injury become foreign to it. 

What do I want: 
Am I asking the question, answering it? What’s the point? There is no point, and maybe that is the point. 

On the field of my defeat I am, gaining the crumbs of compassion which I lacked feeling intuitively from peers.

Am I depressed, no, this - is not depression. I am not among enough for the world that I and it mutually forgot to engage one another in the libel of expectations around. 

Very Truly Yours —

## Facts

```json
{
  "platform": "Facebook",
  "source_id": "https://facebook.com/100035971342878/posts/pfbid0NeTTPQGenYGEEzeeXaUdY8F9tXdXXKUxfx8YYacH1uEHiSjmvW77u4wA7VrGm6g2l/",
  "date_as_recorded": "2026-03-23",
  "post_type": "text",
  "author": "Cyrus Massoumi",
  "retrieval": "Facebook connection timeline fetch, 2026-10-10 (case file Appendix C)"
}
```

---

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