Horror Kin - Blog Posts

A Dream About An Archeologist

“I had a nightmare about being an archeologist a few nights ago.” The world falls dead silent as I wait for a reply. They’re typing back, I can see those three little dots dancing at the bottom of the screen. “An archeologist? That’s an interesting career for sure. How’d the nightmare go?”

“The beginnings of the dream were inconsequential, mostly going about my job at the digging site. It was actually a calm sort of pleasant in that part of the dream. The tools seemed a bit dated.. But it was when the team uncovered, in their excavation, two bodies that things took a horrific turn into nightmare territory.” I paused for a moment, thinking over how to continue with just what I saw.

“.. I’m not sure what you’re comfortable with, so I’ll just leave this part censored. From how deep down in the earth they were, it was impossible someone had buried them there, and the earth we had dug up was unturned when we started this project. People were panicking, calling for 999, and here’s something more horrific,

“The reason I bring up them being too far down, and the earth being unturned is how fresh the bodies were. Under all that dirt, their skin was soft and blueish. Bloated from the very beginnings of decomposition. Her hands were gripped into his arms so hard they broke flesh, and the most terrifying part for me was their eyes. They were wide open, allowing the dirt in.

“Their mouths, their faces still twisted by fright in death, they were alive when they somehow found themselves under all that earth, and that terrified me because by all means, I have no idea how they had gotten there.”

 I lean back, looking at what I copied and pasted. There’s guilt here. It's an unusual thing, the need to tell people about what I’ve seen in the dreams– a new development that makes my stomach roll. I don’t like having to spread this feeling, that’s not me.. But fear can really turn me into a monster when it’s left unattended. After a moment of waiting, the weight of what I wrote suddenly hits me somewhere deep beneath my ribs, and I feel anxious. 

“Julius, we think you really oughta take a look into The Magnus Archives; https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/The_Buried.” I’m sulking. I’m a grown man, and I’m sulking over this reply. Something about that source recommendation makes me uneasy and I don’t know why. Shouldn’t I want an answer? Don’t I want to understand? Before I can dwell on this factor any longer, I realize that they are still typing.. And what they write sends a chill down my spine all at once. 

“We’ve seen this,

These people buried deep beyond the limits. 

They were in space, and they met with a fate worse than death… and then they weren't in space anymore.

They were sent home.”

yo do u have a kin list anywhere 👀

That's a good question--

As of right now, I do not have a kin list. This is due to the fact I still have not been able to find a source that completely matches my kin memories. That being said, I do have a list of sources I have been looking into in hopes of finding a connection which I will list here though if anyone finds any familiarity in me or the memories I depict in my posts, I urge you to reach out to me with any insight you can offer;

https://www.tumblr.com/imitative-magpie/777294067956580352/while-i-have-the-time-to-keep-up-on-my-blog?source=share 

A Dream About A Kindled Flame

He’s rough, glaring at me with brown eyes that are tawny and sharp. The burns encompass his entire being, his nose crooked and scarred, his neck licked by intricate scarring as he lays there, waiting for me. I won’t bore you with the details- we all know how this goes. 

The story really begins in a bar. My name is Jim Navy, and I’m a wanted man. There’s just so many criminals in downtown Chicago, I never stood out, and so I was never caught for my heinous actions. So long as you keep your head down, you can live as a ghost during the day and a monster during the night. I remember when I was young and romanticised this lifestyle, how I thought that it would grant me respect and protection, but these people out here are nothing more but rabid dogs, willing to throw you under the bus for a moment's notice. I found no loyalty in Chicago, but I made sure I always came out on top. Whether it be a crook trying to con me, or a late night lover threatening to go to the cops, I got my last word in. There was nothing more to it than that.

‘Sometimes I still think about her face, after I cut her throat.’ This was the thought in his mind that allowed me to disconnect from him in the dream. As he remembered the woman he killed and mugged, I too could feel her face burning the backs of my eyes. ‘This man is a monster,’ and still he takes a long fluid swig off his beer. He’s haunted by the actions he took that night, is how he tries to ration it with himself, but it doesn’t stop him from sauntering over to the pretty redhead who's been staring him down across the bar since the moment he walked in and making the same mistakes he did that night. She’s so pretty though, you can’t hold him accountable for his actions when the woman looks like that, right? Is what he tells himself, and I find myself wanting to gag.

He is right though, she is beautiful. Long dark red hair that's impossibly straight, and wild amber eyes. She smirks as he takes a seat across from her at her table, and purrs out a simple, “Took you long enough,” and from there, he drunkenly stumbles into the same mistakes. Sharing too much, asking to take her back to his place, telling her all the things he expects will happen should she go home with him, and she’s all smiles in agreement, but since I’m not Jim, I can see the steady calculation in her eyes. This is a trap where the hunter will soon find out he’s prey. 

She pushes me against the wall in a passionate kiss, trapping my arms above my head in a pose that leaves all my vital organs open for attack. It’s passionate, and I can feel the heat sweltering around us in the back alley. There’s something chemical fueled in her perfume that’s making me dizzy. It permeates the cool night air along with the heat that exudes off our bodies. 

This girl is taking over.

I never got this sort of attention before, not really. It’s rare that attractive women pay me any mind, so my head is still floating when she roughly sinks her hand into the back pocket of Jim, and fishes out his wallet. It’s then that she abruptly pulls away, looking through the mementos of drivers licences he keeps, of all his victims. “What’re you doing, angel face?” He slurs, making a reach for hands. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay the hell back.” The charm has been forgone, and her voice is hot with venom. “How many people have you killed?”

“What the fuck?” His voice is slurred as sweat drips down his temple. The heat comes off of her in waves, like when you first open an oven on a cold winter night. You can see the steam, as she begins to ignite, flames fragmenting off her frame. 

“Wait!” She pauses when it’s my voice that comes through, and not Jim’s. This isn’t how the story goes, afterall. Curiously, the fire engulfed entity that now stands before me cocks her head to the side.. Imploring me to continue. “Does your abnormally high body temperature have any any affect on your neurological function? Because I read-” She cuts men off with a stunned cackle, and in the absurdity of the situation, I can’t help but timidly join her laughter. After all, it’s not every day that you find yourself about to be killed by the human torch. 

Set me ablaze, she did. It was horrific, the fire crackling and searing away layers of flesh. I desperately grabbed at her, only to find her body the consistency of half melted wax. A cruel and horrible death, but I found myself wishing I hadn’t wasted my question on something so stupid.. I was intrigued by her.

The fact that I've seen nearly every film on this at least once, if not multiple times.. haunts me

The Colors of Horror Movie Posters: The 2025 Update +white and black The original.

A Dream About A Home Invasion

There has been something that I have been purposely leaving out for a while, unsure how to touch upon the subject in my documentation in these dreams but I feel as though it is important to mention now. Let’s first start with the facts;

This stage of life is not the first time that I have experienced recurring dreams. In fact, the strange occurrences in my blog have been something that has impacted me in various shades through the entirety of my life, taking many forms. Through fears of fire or fears of the sea and above all, fear of what will happen at the end of the world. One of these fears is what I’ll become when the end inevitably comes for me, and yanks me out of this shallow grave I’ve made for myself..

Sometimes, when I begin my dreams, somebody else is already there. This happened tonight, with me standing in the bedroom of Mindy Hason, and finding a dark, shadowy figure occupying the corner of the bedroom where I should have resided. Long, scraggly dangling limbs, one hand horribly scarred and mangled, the marks tight and mottled that spattered up both arms and a hollow gap in their side where the wind of their ragged breathing seemed to be sucked through. I could not meet their gaze, and yet I felt it, something calculating that sent a shiver down my spine. All I could think of was what that one- whatever they were, had said.. about people being chewed up and swallowed by the mouth of fear. Is this something I have to look forward to becoming? Will I one day have my own hands scarred and broken from tapping into too many realities? We’re both here for the same reason, we’re here for Mindy. 

I take a step towards her, and the shadow does too. Well, what do I do now? Is he heading towards her, or is he heading towards me?? Am I ready to die for a quick fix? I glance back at Mindy, who is now crying softly, shaking while she lays in bed. This was not ideal, there was a pattern we were supposed to follow here, and this was ruining everything! I take another step forward, so does he. I pause, he does too. Mindy makes a noise in the back of her throat, her collarbone trembling under the weight of her fears. It’s then that I decide to make a lunge for her, reaching out for her eyes as the mysterious guest rushes forward as well, both of us bleeding down into her sockets. 

Something clicks and whines, but Mindy doesn’t hear it. She lives out on the countryside, on her own. Years passed since she wrote her novel, ‘A Lovers Glance’, and while she does sometimes find herself feeling lonely, the solitude of her two story colonial feels safe. It feels like something she can depend on.. Mindy Hason lives alone. 

Friends from back in highschool, colleagues from her previous job before she blew up– Mindy lost touch with them all once her book rose in the ranks of popularity. Out on the countryside it's all a distant dream, and so when Mindy heard a knock on her door that September afternoon, she was surprised, and even more so when she  got up to see a milkman. A genuine milkman, donned in all white attire like in the 20s. She can see him there through the window on her way to the front door but as she makes her way to the door she pauses, taking a step backwards into the hall.

 The man leans over and peers in through the window, cupping his hands up to the window and looking in, and at last I gain a proper look at the milkman, his grin twisted and tight against his face, his eyes dark, almost shadows on his face like his flesh was simply a mask. The house remains peaceful, quiet. Even with the gentle sounds of the countryside, nothing can shake the unadulterated terror that is ringing in my ears as Mindy backs towards the kitchen to grab her phone and call the police. She backs through the doorway, reaches her hand along the counter.. The counter is smooth, bare. There is no phone to save Mindy Hason from her fate. I really wish that I had found the wherewithal to ask a question or to break myself out of the fear that was holding me down, but something in the eyes of that man just wasn’t alive, and that terrified me. It felt like a shell, or a puppet being manipulated by something insidious that I couldn’t comprehend. 

Through all this, that was when the second milk man appeared at the back screen room door, reaching for the handle, and Mindy sprints across the kitchen in leaps and bounds just to secure and lock the door in mere fractions of seconds, only to find herself face to face with this uncanny humanoid who stands at her back porch, grinning up at her with plump cartoonishly stretched cheeks. From the front of the house, she hears the door rattle and click, and the chase of running to the front door begins yet again. 

How long were we there? Back and forth, from door to door, desperately relocking and trying to keep our last means of safety unbreeched? She knows she's slowing the inevitable, but she has to resist these monsters anyway she can. She saw their eyes and she knows they aren't human. 

As she heads back for the screen door, he heart drops in her stomach to see the shorter of the two milk men had now found his way into her porch, waddling to the kitchen at an unnervingly calm pace. It's when the front door swings open from behind Mindy, that I wake in a cold sweat wondering just who the mysterious figure in my dreams is, and why he's trying to enter memories like me. 

Please Share What's Given You Mental/Phantom Shifts

We all know that feeling- where you're watching a movie, and something on screen catches your attention because it's just like you. That creature transformation, that dynamic between two people, that mythical beast.. whatever it is, we latch onto these scenes because they help us better contextualize and explain our experience as alterhumans, because it so deeply affects us, leaving us in shifts for days after. 

I would like to share a few moments in media, besides the suggestions of others, that have impacted me in such a way.

I'd like to start by sharing my thoughts regarding the movie The Omen. It's one of those horror movies that stick with you, not just because of the plot but the intrigue surrounding such a film. Everyone knows that rumor that it's a cursed film due to the tragic occurrences that surrounded it's production. In the series of films, horrible things happen to anyone who gets close to Damien, as if he himself has willed them to happen. He's depicted as the antichrist, and the way he talks, the things that happen in the trilogy.. Well, it just left me feeling like we're in the same boat. That there's something more to it, because I feel stained by something horrific and I feel as though I've inflicted this malcontent against anyone who gets close to me. 

It's part of why Insidious spoke to me as much as it had, my first watch through. The demons and spirits in Insidious are described as hungry and they can even smell the still living souls when they astral project from their bodies at night. They feed off the fear of those they afflict, and they aim to steal the bodies of the dreamers for their own. That scene where there was that dark figure standing in the corner of Dalton’s room? That is so close to how I've found myself in my many dreams, haunting others like a sleep apparition demon. I would be lying if I said that was my only reason though… The red door that's been shown in the original film– I heard they're making a movie giving it some background story, but there's something about the red door that felt familiar. I don't even know why. 

The Rake had been one of the creepypastas of the early 2000s that had stuck with me throughout my childhood- I remember a depiction of its ghoul like figure, sitting at the edge of beds. If you look directly at this creature, it attacks viscously, wishing not to be perceived. This shrill voiced anomaly of the woods reminds me much of myself, reminds me of things I’ve long forgotten. The Rake holds a special place in my heart. I was nearly obsessed with the story in my preteens, and it remains a topic of interest to this day, along with the stories of The Operator. 

It should come as no surprise that I relate a fair bit to Johnny Truant, with his descent into paranoia and hysteria throughout his journal, and his ambiguous end. It’s just one of the many reasons I felt so attached to House of Leaves. This character is not my only reasoning for why I feel attached to House of Leaves though. There are recurring themes that have left its mark on me, and made me who I am. The house’s inner dimensions being as twisted and foreboding as they are, as well Will’s letter regarding the house to Karen had left a significant impact on me. It’s so unfortunate that only fragmented pieces seem familiar to me while not touching on some of the topics of my dream memories- because I would claim this as my source in a heartbeat. 

Smile was an interesting one, to give me Kin shifts. While Insidious was the first movie to allow me kinshifts that left me truly feeling like a monster, Smile was the first time I found I liked it, and how that terrified me. The idea of something so horrific infecting someone in a parasitic nature–

I have always felt my urges held those same parasitic traits. It only got worse with the sequel. The opening soundtrack and the ending left a terrified thrill in my heart, left me feeling that desire to suck the marrow straight from fear itself. 

.. And then there was ‘The Murders of Molly Southbourne’, a book that I still reflect on not for it’s literary prowess, as I found myself not particularly enthused by the lackluster route the book had taken.. But the very first moment the story’s central theme was unveiled to me, the idea of what could be had always sat heavy in my head. Stories of doppelgangers, and monsters being born from shed blood had always been something that caught my eye, and this book was no different. Sure, there were other stories such as Plastic Faces, taken straight from r/No Sleep, and Tender is the Flesh with the dehumanisation of Jasmine and heavy themes of gore. I guess in truth, the visuals in my head have always drawn me in, fed life to me where I would otherwise be vacant. I just want to know who I am, maybe that's why the theme of doppelgangers and the uncanny has always caught my attention so consistently.    

There are others like this that I ruminate over, trying to find meaning in while it turns a blade of desire deep in my soul,

But I’m interested in you. What do you remember viewing, that first ever gave you those ‘shifty feelings’? Feel free to reblog with your own experiences.

A Dream About A Maze

Tonight’s the night. It has to be–

I’ve been patient, biding my time, ignoring this urge in the name of an experiment but also because some part of me was hoping it’s all a lie I’ve convinced myself of. That I could break away.. I’ve always known what I am. At first it was easy, and I’d gotten hopeful. The dreams dulled to a myriad of eyes, a cacophony of screams. I got dms, offering to share memories and I politely held my resolve but then the ache began to grow steadily like a raw and aching wound in my chest. 

Now that ache has developed into everything I’ve feared the most. This parasocial relationship has become my religion and way of life. So here I am, in another bedroom. In the end it’s no big surprise, I crossed the line a lifetime ago in a reality far from this one. Torturing myself with guilt isn’t enough to hold me back anymore. I want to know the feeling of touching that high again, even if the heart palpitations kill me. I think she understands that when I look at her. 

Megan is watching me back, frightened, but I look through her all the same. Her eyes are dark, frantic and searching mine for any humanity. Yet she found none in any of them. This has become a methodical practice, and I was far too desperate to show any delay. I was beyond reasoning, and nothing more than a caged animal. The eyes are the gateway to her soul, and so my fingers stabbed down into the pupil of her eye, and again we meet in this same place that we always do. 

Megan Awbrey was lost. I could feel that much, the stirring of dread like dead leaves in the wind reverberated through my chest. I had been in the mall with friends, this was just supposed to be a girl’s outing, not only a week away from my birthday. How had I found myself.. Here? It’s a long stretching room, painted a shade that seemed to be red or orange. The loud and bright coloring was miles away from the crisp white of the mini mall that I had been in only moments ago. The only way out was a vivid lilac door. “Erica..? Dana? Where the fuck are you?!” my voice comes out as the sound of an agitated young woman, in her 20s- 22 to be exact, her life had only just begun. I try to shake off the building anxiety and make a move towards the blue door with a huff, only to find the gap between the door and I pull. I was sure I had moved and yet the door remained the same distance away. 

Something is terribly wrong here, I can feel it in the air. Something heavy that sends hot and cold flashes through my body, making my vision dip and swoon, my ears ringing- I am so terribly trapped. I zip open my purse, fishing out an old tube of chapstick. ‘If I really am going nowhere, this chapstick will stay in my line of sight as I’m making a dash for the door,’ I think to myself, dropping it down onto the old, thin carpeted floor and watching it roll slightly into the baseboard of the wall. Megan is congratulating herself for her forward thinking as she takes quick little steps down the ugly ashen hallway, she almost forgets the dire situation she has found herself in, until I look back and see that the chapstick is nowhere to be seen. More direly, I hear footsteps. Fast, quickly closing in footsteps, and so I- Megan, begins to run down the hallway, desperately trying to reach a door she cannot even remember the color of. 

She had not gotten this far through nursing school, to ultimately be backrooms-ed to death. She thinks this under a litany of other frantic and half aborted thoughts- because you barely even have time to think, when you’re running for your life in high heels, mind you-

It was about the time that the hallway went awash in a creamy off putting shade of yellow, that I remembered that I am not Megan Awbrey. This thing I’m running from, at the end of the hallway is just a part of my dreams, and therefore a part of me. I slow to a jog and eventually a halt, refusing to look back at what is probably rapidly advancing. I can hear it’s footsteps on the walls, the ceiling–

“May I ask you a few questions? I feel like you have something to tell me.”  And the voice is so terribly mine, that it catches me off guard. It is me, so suddenly that I feel off kilter, ripped from a dream. It’s quiet for a minute and then, “You can ask, but you’ll never find answers.”

..

What do you do, when you find yourself interrogating your own memories? Are you truly getting the answers you so desperately crave, or is my own subconscious feeding me my worst fears? Is it all an exercise in vanity? 

“I need to know what you are. Please, what is your nature?” I sound frantic to my own ears, and I realize I have disregarded the questionnaire in feverish hope of something making sense. I have no script to rely on now. “I am the gaps in your mind, the fear of chaos. You are living on something concrete, but I am the in between,” The anomaly before me grins wide, drinking in my reaction. I shudder; suddenly this hallway seems so far from the warmth of the sun. Chaos incarnate is one way to look at them, and yet somehow I felt as though they were playing with their answer. “Have you always been force of the impossible coming into reality?” My fingers twitch, the nails clicking against each other in anticipation. At this vague and cryptic question, they cock their head in curiosity. 

The question is at the tip of my tongue, ‘Were you always this, or was it something that was inflicted upon you?’ but I think better of it, instead choosing to ask, “Are there others like you?” 

“Many! More than you could hope to find in your dreams. So many of them were hapless victims that found themselves taken over by an entity outside of human comprehension. Have you ever watched someone get chewed up in the mouth of fear and swallowed down until there was nothing left of the person you knew before? That is what they are! Victims have been fed to the fears countless times, and it will happen again.”

“Why do they do it though? What do they want?” 

“Well, if you were a being that defined yourself off the fear of others for allll of your existence…what would you want, more than anything after being left in silence for as long as we have?”

“They want to be known.” I decided, because that had to be it, right? They wanted to be recognized and seen for the fearful creatures they once were- at least to inspire new fear just as they once had. Could it even be as simple as that? “Is that what you want? To be known?”

“Do I look like I do?” 

I suppose not in the traditional sense. This was a being of complete chaos and contradiction, that much was readily apparent to me, and yet I think this entity would not be entertaining my inquiries if they didn't want to at least be recognized for the disorder and breaking of boundaries that they represent. They are a creature of many branching facets that wishes to be studied by inquisitive eyes- maybe I was just the man to bring them that. 

“I think you have been left craving for a long time.” I finally settled on. “You would know about cravings, wouldn't you? How many memories have you strangled from people's subconscious?” There's a tone of teasing, light and airy and yet the bitter accusation underneath is digging into me deep. “This is my dream and you don't have power here,” I mutter, trying to focus on something so I could force myself awake. I desperately needed to ground myself.

“Oh don't be so coy, dear Jules. You haven't been perfecting your dream hunting because you want to help others.” 

“I'm going to count backwards from 3, and then I'll wake up. Three,”

“All this pride, all this fight… oh,  be honest with yourself. Yoouuu liked it~” 

When the impossibly long, slender fingers of the entity ran along my chest, I couldn't help but let out a breathless gasp, a tremor running up my spine. It then became apparent to me that no matter how otherworldly I felt and looked in these dreams, there was still a part of me that felt vulnerable and human… and most of all, afraid. They could smell it on me, and I was mad at myself for giving in so easily. 

“I'm nothing like you,”

“Oh no? You're not drinking in the fear? My, maybe he was wrong about you after all.” 

And suddenly, the fingers stabbed deep into my chest, causing me to leap awake, grabbing at myself. As I work on catching my breath, I know when Megan finally found herself free from that monster, she never found her friends again. A sickening part of me is more focused on the possibilities our conversation has presented, rather than the guilt I should be feeling though.

.. And isn’t that just terrifying?

I'm taking this. It's mine now.

some horrorkin and monsterkin blinkies :] pssst... i'm taking requests for this template if anyone wants it in a different color/different words! (free to use, no credit or permission required, no dni)

An Update;

So far, my break from latching onto others’ memories is going well! My dreams still haunt me all the same, I try not to remember them– a myriad of eyes, a cacophony of screams in the dark, these will be lost to the sands of time, but if I just ignore them I won't have to breathe life back into the horror of it all by posting on here. Besides, wouldn't that be cheating..?

There were times that I felt like I wanted to go into my inbox, an anxious sort of feeling that  tells me I have to look, but after 6 days ignoring it, this is seemingly fairly manageable! On an unrelated note, did you know you can grit your teeth hard enough to make fractures in them? 

Ocean Eyes

There is an eye at the bottom of the ocean, belonging to an old god whose name has been forgotten, but still leaves echoes in the memory of man. It's there, under the rolling waves and aquatic life. In a constant staring contest with our sun that's dripping crimson with the blood of so many who have given into their fears, the eye gazes not just on that sun but through every life that has ever lived in this reality we've found ourselves in, and so many others.

 When it finally blinks, the world will end. This is a fact. The Earth will begin to swallow us whole, and nature will take back what we've stolen from it. Bridges collapsing and headlights careering into the star filled glinting sea, into doors that were never meant to be opened. Fear and panic in the air, do you feel it too?.. and when that eye blinks, our sun will too. I want to look down into those depths just so I can reassure myself it's fine. ‘It was just a dream, a terrible, terrible dream that you had because you went into cardiac arrest,’

But it's still wriggling in my brain, pulling in and out of my periphery like a tide. So I think..

I'm going to run a little experiment. I've mentioned my urges- 

My fixation with hearing others experiences and memories, my drive to feel that connection, and to pick at the more distressing details of said memories. I would like to stop completely, just to see how uncomfortable I'd get. I want to document how long it takes until my resolve cracks, just to get a sense of how trapped I really am in this cycle.

So, if I don't post for a while, my blog isn't dead! I'm simply trying not to fall into a pattern that I've been feeding into for the past 3 months. I will post the results when I feel I've gotten satisfying results.

About Problematic Kin

While I take this brief interlude on my blog, I would like to make something abundantly clear that I have had others inquiring about-- I will never turn away problematic or ‘antagonist’ fictionkin and fictives. 

I have seen you pushed to the wayside without anyone allowing you to get your foot in the door, or taking the time to understand your story. It's a shame because I have met so many wonderful kins who hesitate to interact with their own communities, and if I shut them out, I would have missed out on some genuinely wonderful interactions.

 To the HABITs of Everyman HYBRID, the Andys and Ashleys of The Coffin of Andy and Leyley, the Kevins of Welcome to Nightvale,  and the Jonah Magnuses of The Magnus Archives, I want YOUR STORY. I want to understand your experiences, your memories but most of all I want you to know that you aren't alone. Whether you're a slasher from a horror film or a protagonist from a source material that has gained a reputation.. I would like to hear you out, to understand you in your entirety because I too have been marked by something horrific, and it has defined me my whole life. 

I want you to know that while it may feel impossible to stop that feeling, maybe we can all peer into the unknown together, and find joy in this life in spite of previous ones. 

Ocean Eyes

There is an eye at the bottom of the ocean, belonging to an old god whose name has been forgotten, but still leaves echoes in the memory of man. It's there, under the rolling waves and aquatic life. In a constant staring contest with our sun that's dripping crimson with the blood of so many who have given into their fears, the eye gazes not just on that sun but through every life that has ever lived in this reality we've found ourselves in, and so many others.

 When it finally blinks, the world will end. This is a fact. The Earth will begin to swallow us whole, and nature will take back what we've stolen from it. Bridges collapsing and headlights careering into the star filled glinting sea, into doors that were never meant to be opened. Fear and panic in the air, do you feel it too?.. and when that eye blinks, our sun will too. I want to look down into those depths just so I can reassure myself it's fine. ‘It was just a dream, a terrible, terrible dream that you had because you went into cardiac arrest,’

But it's still wriggling in my brain, pulling in and out of my periphery like a tide. So I think..

I'm going to run a little experiment. I've mentioned my urges- 

My fixation with hearing others experiences and memories, my drive to feel that connection, and to pick at the more distressing details of said memories. I would like to stop completely, just to see how uncomfortable I'd get. I want to document how long it takes until my resolve cracks, just to get a sense of how trapped I really am in this cycle.

So, if I don't post for a while, my blog isn't dead! I'm simply trying not to fall into a pattern that I've been feeding into for the past 3 months. I will post the results when I feel I've gotten satisfying results.

Defanging Fear Itself

‘When I say end, I don't mean "lifeless", I mean "terminated life as we know it". This is an important distinction.’

 I keep staring at my dms, vacantly, pondering just what I’ve done. When I started to reach out out into the void, I had thought this was a noble sacrifice, and that if only I reached out-

Maybe I could erase all the harm that I’ve created. I think I lost track of that, somehow along the way. I was so caught up with filling this hollow part inside of me, so caught up with keeping myself warm that I hadn’t even considered the people I was setting on fire just to do so. 

…And here’s this guy, right? I’ve been talking to him for a while, and he just gets it. Everytime he talks to me, he’s given me nothing but sure guidance as if he can peer right into my mind and see just what I’m feeling- and lord, do I feel so much. It’s like I’m holding back an ocean of anxieties, and one word is the detonator. I think about what he’s told me a lot, mostly about how he died because I just couldn’t understand it. Why did someone so clever and swift have to die? How could you devote your whole life to something, only for it to turn around and stab you in the back? I think about myself, how I gave into the impulse, and I wound up in the hospital with an atrial fibrillation. I've given my whole life to something, and it's going to eat me alive.

‘Why did it have to end though? The world, I mean?’

Who am I trying to find? Would it really be helping them, if I asked them to remember me? Would sorry really be enough to rekindle their souls and make things right again?..Or am I just doing this for me? Maybe it’s better that I live my life, never knowing. The people I hurt may be living a beautiful life, far from the pain of whatever timeline that’s been shattered underneath my fingertips. I can only hope they are. 

He was willing to trade humanity for enlightenment, and because of it he was killed. Well, what does that make me?

 Is that who I truly am? 

Am I willing to kill the things I’ve been trying to save? Fear, it’s all I’ve talked about since I created this blog. Humans have been telling tales of fear since the dawn of man, because we crave the cortisol and adrenaline like rich silk under our fingers. I don’t think I was laying to rest your fears, when I came out of the dark to carve into you with inquiry, I think I was just breathing life into old wounds, and you deserved better than that. Trading a complete life for a high that will never hit the same hardly seems fair, so let's turn around and bite the hand that feeds us out of spite. It's hurt you, and it's hurt me. If we don't we'll succumb to desensitization, or an even worse fate. We need to defang these fears before they swallow us whole. 

I’ll defang myself first.

I promise. 

(Consent for this documented information has been given by all parties involved.)