Journal Entry — Kimmy Shirvington
I’m not even sure why I still keep this journal. Maybe it’s some leftover habit from when life made sense—when problems could be solved with a solid plan and a glass of wine! That was the old me... She believed in order, in logic. She believed that if you just worked hard enough, if you followed the steps, the world would line up neatly like a well-balanced equation.
But now… now I don’t even know what the world is anymore.
Before Havensport, I was sane... mostly, I think? Life had rules, structure. You plant the grapes, you harvest, you ferment—simple. It all made sense. And I—God, I actually miss that version of me. She was naive, sure, but she didn’t feel this gnawing emptiness, this constant need to fill herself up with something—anything—to make the confusion stop. She wasn’t chasing bottles just to shut out the noise. She would never refer to herself in the third person...
But Havensport… it’s like being pulled under, slowly, until you can’t breathe. The land itself is rejecting me, and every new piece of this cursed puzzle just makes the whole thing harder to grasp. I came here to fix a vineyard, and instead, I’m unraveling—losing myself to something bigger than science. Something bigger than reason.
I can’t even begin to explain what it’s like, the way this place seeps into your head. It’s like falling into a kind of dementia. At first, you try to hold on—you tell yourself you’ll find a way to explain it all. You’ll make sense of it. But with every step deeper into this world, every cursed bottle of wine, every shadow lurking just out of sight, that grip loosens. I feel myself slipping, and the worst part is—I don’t know if I want to stop it.
I’ve always had a taste for indulgence. A drink here, a pill there—nothing that felt out of control. But now? Now I’m devouring it all. The drinks, the distractions, the oblivion. I’m a glutton for anything that numbs the confusion, anything that makes the fear go quiet, even for a little while. I tell myself it’s just to help me think clearer, that the wine softens the edges of the madness, but deep down I know… I’m not drinking to escape. I’m drinking to forget. To forget how much I don’t understand.
It’s funny, in a sick kind of way. I used to believe that every problem had a solution, that everything could be fixed if you just found the right answer. But there’s no fixing this, is there? No simple cure. There’s just this gaping, yawning madness that gets wider every day. I’m not a scientist anymore—I’m just some lost soul, drowning in a bottle, trying to pretend I can still figure it all out.
And maybe that’s where the innocence comes in. The old Kimmy, the one who believed in the purity of the world, in the simplicity of the vineyard—that part of me still wants to believe that things can be fixed. That there’s something that makes sense in all this. But it’s fading, like the last dregs of wine in the bottle. The more I see, the more I realize that some things just… can’t be explained.
I’m starting to wonder if the only way to survive this place is to let go of that hope. To accept that Havensport is going to eat me alive, one drink at a time.
Still, part of me—that part of me—clings to the idea that I can fix it. That I can fix me. But as the days go on, and the bottles pile up, I’m not so sure anymore.
And so I'll step outside myself again, watching my life from that third person perspective. The once shiny bullet train of my life heading for a wreck I can't turn away from nor prevent from happening...
—Kimmy
