Cryptid 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.”

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.

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?

Final Conclusions;

I bludgeoned sobriety with a bat, and left it dead in the woods. It died an ugly death, kicking and screaming as I tore it limb from limb- because I am so hungry. I can’t help it, I don’t want to know what I am without someone here to latch onto the memories of. I can’t help it, this is who I’ll always be. So now that you know I’m trapped, let's get into our findings;

Within  the very beginnings of the experiment, I found that when I received notifications in my dms, I felt a nervous energy. It was almost an impulsive reflex, telling me to answer my dms. That I was breaking the rules of social interaction. According to my two observers that I unwittingly roped into the experiment, they had said that my urge to return back to these behaviors showed an overall consistency, or as Steph lovingly put it, “(...)You were crawling out of your skin since day one.”. 

That being said, I had noticed a steady increase of sporadic behavior from that point on, including thrill seeking urges that included a momentary fantasy about going bungee jumping or taking a detour into the woods on my way home from work to scream until my lungs give out. These urges were accompanied by dietary changes, cravings for starch based comfort foods that suggested that I was under stress.

 The idea that I was under stress is further backed up by the observations of my aforementioned participants of choice, one of which (Evan, the problem child) had brought to attention my discomfort multiple times throughout the experiment. 

At the end of the experiment, it had been brought to my attention by Steph that, “You’re trying to collect and address primarily qualitative data with quantitative methodologies and as a result are losing out on a lot of useful information, both in this experiment and general interview practices,” which was a great point, seeing as throughout the entirety of my blog, I've been trying to assign tangible and numerical findings to something as intimate as kin memories.

 Now that I'm back, I plan to remedy this, starting with openly sharing about what makes me experience mental/phantom shifts, and what has spoken to me so far throughout this search into what source I belong to. 

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.

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.

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.

A Dream About A Cabin

They're standing around a table when I materialize in the corner. Pressed tightly together in their circle, shadows stretching over the walls, they whisper about the horrors of man and as they hit that crescendo of hysteria, their voices hiss into hushed silence. They know I’m with them now, bodies growing still. This is where I’m really taken aback- the majority of the figures at that table bleed into nothingness- as if they were never there to begin with, save for one man who turns slowly, the satisfaction is just dripping from his eyes when he faces me in full. 

“How nice of you to visit while I wait on my crime, were you hoping to find answers here?” He asks. It’s almost friendly and teasing but make no mistake, the mask that he wears has not put me at ease, I can tell that there’s something not fully human about him. He picks up on my glare that’s pinning him down for answers, and he doesn’t delay because he knows the sharp twist of hunger and the paranoia in our gut is the only thing that drives us. “You know- the life sentence you’ve subjected me to? Don’t you hear it underneath every dream, that hissing noise? Tell me, do you know who you are yet?” And he’s right, there is something just undercurrent. It’s whirring and clogged with dust. I begin to wonder if he really can’t leave this place… or if much like me, he’s been broken down into tiny, tiny pieces. “You don’t know, I can tell by that constipated look on your face. You don’t know, and it distresses you more than anything.” Sure, his smile is tight with mirthless cheer. This fear he sees in me is his own though, and that’s how he’s able to tap into it. “In the end it hardly matters, what’s in a name anyways? You and I still play our role of a voyeur all the same,”

What’s in a name indeed.

“I can show you things.” Suddenly his voice is right next to my ear as he looms from behind me. “Things that will leave you awake for hours, things that will make you think twice about wandering dark hallways alone at night.”  I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his face while he says this. For some reason, having him out of my line of sight makes me terribly uneasy. “Would you like that? You don’t have to answer, I already know.” And I would like that. I really, really would. All it takes is one second to get caught up in his purple prose, and suddenly I feel the urge pulling me under again. All it takes is for him to give me that final push, and the next thing I know-

I’m right back where I started. In a bedroom, standing over another victim. This one gazes at me through hollowed sockets, healed over through the ever merciful passage of time. I know he can see me though. He can sense me standing over him and he can imagine what I must look like, the unspeakable form I’ve taken, he fears it just as any other man that I’ve held in this very spot before him. He fears me, and I am a glutton by nature, so I press my fingers down into the mottled flesh, and let myself get pulled away by the currents of his memories. 

There was a cabin, long forgotten by those who came before. Built upon hallowed grounds from merging timelines, out far in the woods of Scotland, Isobel has gone missing.. And I have to bring her home. All through our lives, she had been the braver, more outgoing twin. In grade school she had been the one to hang upside-down from the monkey bars, the one to brave the dark and assure me that it would be alright- because she'd be there to protect me.

 She had always been interested in exploring new uncharted lands, and that interest of hers never seemed to be fully quenched. That wild side of her’s became more refined the older we got, her taking wildlife survival courses while I focused on our university's acting programs. 

The rock filled dirt road came to an abrupt stop, but I knew where I was heading, based on the letters that she had sent during the very beginning of her expedition- a little cabin, modest and in need of repair. When Izzy had said that she wanted to take a gap year to find herself, we had been supportive. Even more so when she said she wanted to use the time to pursue her passion of solo camping. It had seemed like the perfect vacation to her restless legs and wandering spirit. No one could have expected Isobel to have gone radio silent only a month into her trip, not returning home from even 2 weeks later. Had she simply lost track of time? I didn't want to think of an alternative answer. 

So here I was-  walking up to this haunted abode, ready to knock.. When I got the feeling of being watched. It prickled along the hairs of my arms and down my neck in icy fingers, dancing lines down my back. “Izzy!” I call out, but she does not answer to my knocking, the door remains shut. There's a scent to the air, sickly and metallic. It's the smell of death, I know it. Isobel is likely gone, but in a moment of nervous energy- I'm not sure what took over me, I began making my way around the back of the cabin in long leaping strides. I needed to find a way into that cabin. If Isobel was in there.. I needed to be there for her, like she's always been there for me. 

Eyes frantically searching for a way in, I decide that I'll grab a rock and smash the first story window. A window that looks to have already taken a beating, by some unknown sources. The rocks are small. These would hardly do the damage I was hoping for. I wander farther to the treeline, where a ditch of disturbed and peeled back earth is alive with flies. I fear the worst as I inch closer to the shallow burial, only to find.. Eyes. 

Eyes, plucked from a variety of animals, bloodied with the nerves still attached like outstretched appendages, eaten by the black flies that cluster around. I feel faint, and I once again feel the feeling of eyes upon me. She's standing there, hands bloody, eyes ravenous and frenzied. She's scared, and she wants to go home. She wants to go back to how it was before all of this. “Over here! Over here with me, where it’s safe!” She makes a frantic gesture for me, she wants me to walk over to her. Something is terribly off though. I take in the disheveled appearance of my sister-

“You haven’t bathed,” It seems silly that of all the things that stood out to me, that’s what I chose to point out. Her hair was matted and sallow in tangled clumps down her back. Grime and blood caked under her fingernails. She smelled of death. “Something awful happened in the bathtub of this house. Something terrible lives here.” I take a step back from her, glancing back at the shallow grave of eyes. Taking all this in, I remember what I wanted so desperately from these dreams. I am not Kieran O’Connor, I am Jules, and I need to ask a question right now.. But I’m terrified. I don’t understand how this could’ve happened to the O’Connor twins, they were such a happy family.

“Why?!”  It’s all I could think to ask. My voice is strained in my throat, but it’s my question, and that is all that matters at this moment. “Don’t you feel it? The eyes that are on us? Kieran, look into the woods!” She’s already looking past me, and so I did, and I saw everything. 

The woods had gone still, quiet. Birds perched on branches as stock still as could be, staring deep into us, emotionlessly. Squirrels halted in posture, facing their judging gazes with the lone pine marten, but there was more. A darkness in those woods, so terribly familiar gazed into me as well with its many, many eyes. I felt it look through the vessel of Kieran O’Connor and into my soul, just as I knew- something I’m unsure of how I became so certain of, that Isobel was doing to me, right now. I spun around on my heels to look back, and Isobel’s expression has changed. 

Isobel wore such a hateful expression. Have you ever had someone look at you with such a true level of hate that it left you frightened? That it warped their face and made them an uncanny looking stranger? I’m not talking about the usual mocking and disgust that people often exhibit towards those they take a disliking to. Isobel became something other when she recognized me. “It’s staring through you, too. I should have known better… than to have expected you to let me leave this place so easily.” 

“Put down the knife, Isobel.” But it was too late, she was rapidly advancing on me, mouth slightly agape and that hateful expression twisting once loving features. She was his sister. My head smack hard against the ground as she pushes me..Kieran, over. He trusted her. The knife angles down to his eye. How could this have happened? How could I let it happen? And I felt it as well as I had heard it, when the first eye was plucked free with a sickening pop. 

I don’t need to tell you, that this was when I woke up. You already know.

Okay, I keep reading a lot of your dreams, how they're about you being some sort of cryptid monster. I see in your pinned post that you have a feeling (one of) your source(s) is horror and that you also doomed souls and came from a bad timeline or something.

This is a really long shot- especially since this source isn't finished yet, but it has timeline splits and a demon that steals and eats souls, with the help of yours truly. (Also the demon can see the future so, like, that's pretty cool)

Though, I could just be putting my own want of finding my canon demon onto you, but... 🤷🏻‍♀️

Anyway, at the current time source is 5 hours long with all endings and secret dialogue. It's like $15 on Steam but free to watch by Faz Faz on YouTube.

CW for like... All the typical stuff you'd see in gothic and psychological horrors, though.

-Ashley Graves (from the Visual Novel/Puzzle Solving RPG: the Coffin of Andy and Leyley)

Well, I certainly feel like a demon. The detail of it having premonitions of the future does speak to me, now that you mention it. I'm not sure if it's kin shifts, but often during and directly after dreams, I get this feeling. 

It wriggles its way into my brain and gives me this sense of knowing, this sense of how things are or will be.. and then when it's done shifting things into focus, it just bleeds out of me, leaving me wanting more. It leaves me feeling less than human. If these words sound familiar to you at all, then I may owe an apology to one Ashley Graves from a doomed timeline. We will soon see-

hey nuhuh "overreacting" is valid as hell and you should do whatever you like on your blog. i love seein your stuff mate, i just hope you feel better soon :(

Thank you, I appreciate your concern. It means a lot to hear that even with my mood being so turbulent, that you'll still stay.

I'm not sure what this feeling is exactly, people have made some suggestions.. What I do know is that this process I've started with asking about others' memories, I've become dependent on it. Maybe it's just because I feel so discontent with my own life, with the fact that after all this time, I'm still not entirely sure where I'm from.

Nevertheless, I want to thank you as well as everyone who has taken the time to help me with this journey. It's remarkable the amount of sources I've been recommended and viewed in such a short time, and regardless of where I end up- I'll remember and hold all of your memories close to my heart.

So About That Vent I Wrote A Minute Ago

I know writing, "It's never going to stop," and using the tag that I had was probably in poor taste, but I feel like deleting it might make it seem like I'm trying to hide something, and I want to remain completely transparent with you.

I'm not sure if I actually feel those things, I think sometimes I get these urges that become deafeningly loud, and I just want it to stop.

It usually starts as a steady buildup behind the backs of my eyes and against my larynx. Like, I'm trying to explain the weight of the air because something changes but I'm not sure how to explain it. Maybe it's hot and cold?. And there's humming in the air that I constantly hear along with everything else, and suddenly my sense of control is being violently and explosively ripped away from me.. And time doesn't just slip by around me like with the descriptions of dissociation I've read about, no everything comes to a screeching halt because that's usually the point where I just fall apart right at the seams, you know? And I always feel so juvenile and embarrassed after.

Like it's a whole ordeal and then instead of the world ending like it felt like before, it just keeps on going and I have to show my face around the people who watched me curl up into a corner crying the way I had. It all goes, the image I've been trying to build up for myself.

I can even feel it starting to happen. I can almost visualize it happening, like I'm just one drop of blood spattering into my face while I'm working or one misstep down the stairs away from that happening and I think about that and what it'd mean for me .... There's a whole ocean of stressors behind these eyes, and hell becomes something as simple as an itchy shirt or an embarrassing social interaction. Does anyone feel this too? The visceral fear of being seen?

An illustration of the eye that I saw in my dream, created by these two images;

I drew over the top of the first image, but I hope this will help better explain to those reading just what I saw.

The Eye At The Bottom of Emerald Coast

This post is an update to where I have been for the last 2 weeks. I plan to write everything that I experienced, everything I heard, everything I saw– in excruciating detail for me. For my own peace of mind, so if you are perturbed by talk related to medical emergencies or long winded explanations about things as trivial as my feelings, then feel free to turn away. I won’t fault you for it, but this post is going up all the same, because I feel like this moment in my life meant something. It had to.

So, what happened? I'm just going to rip the bandage off and say, I had a cardiac event at work, and had to be taken away in an ambulance. I don't like having to share this because I feel like I always have something dramatic happening in this disaster of a life I've built for myself. I thought moving from my hometown and getting a medical degree was supposed to make my life more stable, but the groundwork I've created is crumbling around me, and the fall from grace started with a workplace argument. “I don't get why you don't trust us, we have been so nice to you, and yet you keep pulling this shit-”

“Look, I can't just turn trust on like a switch, Larry. If I could, I would just to get you off my back but don't sit there and lie to me. I know you all have been talking about me in secret. What was it about? Is it because of what I said about the freezer room? Is it- oh my god, did you find out why I left my last job?” I panicked, but the look on Larry's face told me that it was not information he was privy to… yet. “I do not think it's a coincidence that you all suddenly fall silent the second I enter the room. So am I just being paranoid or do you have something you want to tell me?”

“You're just being paranoid!!” He throws his hands up with his shouted exclamation, several people glance over at us. “Look, dude… Okay, we have talked a little bit but only because we're worried about you!” I raised an eyebrow of disbelief. “Seriously? After we invited you out to grab drinks with us, you still don't think we're friends?”

“I…don't  know what I think.”

I could feel the tension rising up in the back of my throat, like bile. Everything in the room pulsed as I took in a shaking breath, but Larry just pushed on. “Why are you so damn negative? I just don't get it, man. You know when you aren't going on about how the world is awful, you're actually fun to talk to-”

“Listen, bad always happen to me- I'm just reporting the facts,”

“This is exactly what I'm talking about-! Nobody is out to get you! I like you, Julius! I like you!” and I tried to say something in rebuttal but… I threw up right there at the table with no warning…and it was pure black, the texture gelatinous and bitter. I thought about how someone had told me once that black vomit is a tell towards a serious health issue and that you are close to death- and I know that's because of the coffee ground appearance of vomit during a gastrointestinal bleed, I know that, okay?  I could tell that wasn't what this was because it was downright acrylic looking in consistency,  but it was too late, the fear that I was dying was already firmly planted in my head. I could feel the prickle of eyes on me, making me feel even more panicked. “Oh shoot, let me go get some paper towels,” Larry said, but Gilbert was already making strides over to the paper towel roll on the counter in the breakroom. My head was swimming, and my shoulder began to throb so hard that it trailed up the side of my neck and that just freaked me out even more.That must've been when I lost consciousness, because I don't really recall much afterwards. I think Larry might've tried to coax me out of my seat, saying; “Okay, let's get you sitting on the ground before you pass out.”but besides that, it's a blur. All I wanted was to stand up and shake it off, and show them that everything was alright– but it was like I was trying to keep my head above water when the waves were crashing all the same, silencing my cries for help and pulling me under. I fought it the whole way down.

For a painful moment, it was just dark, and the only thing I was conscious of was that feeling where you've been dropped from a great height, that rush of adrenaline in a quick pulsing ’thump!’ and then I was far under the currents of emerald bay. The water was dark and rich, and it overwhelmed all my senses. It was all encompassing, in a terrifying way that made it impossible to tell which direction the surface was. For a second there it was nice because at least this felt constant, you know? It almost felt safe, in a way that was terribly deceptive. 'Thump!' There was something there, under the ocean floor. I couldn't see it, but it was there, its heartbeat shaking the tranquility of death.  I could feel it with absolute certainty. It made the sea pulse like a womb, and so I swam down towards the heartbeat that was drumming on, shaking the walls of my soul.

Because it's not fair. I played my whole life by the books. I kept my head down, I worked myself to the bone, and I always followed what was expected of me. I never put myself out there. As I kept kicking my feet, all I could think about was all the hobbies I repressed, all the people I could've kissed, all the things I could've brought into question- it wasn't fair. I wasn't supposed to die like this, never finding the closure I was searching for. I just wanted to understand who I am, I just wanted to know- was that really so awful? 

’Thump!’

And there it was, at the bottom of emerald bay, the thing that's haunted me, the explanation of my entire life looking right through me as if I wasn't merely my flesh. One, pulsing eye, flecked with the dark stars of infinite timelines and realities. I spent my whole life feeling lost, like I didn't know who I was, and now it was looking me right in the face like a macabre joke. I thought back to all that time I spent asking people about their experiences, and trying to selfishly fit myself into some space I could belong- the Supernatural kin community, the Madoka Magica kin community, the Mouth Washing kin community especially and it was all because of this thing. This thing I don't even understand. I wanted to, in spite of everything. I almost wanted to laugh at how bad it hurt…and because I have a sense of humor, as I reached out to stab into the pupil with my sharpened fingers, I thought to myself,

“I hope this hurts”

Some things about going into cardiac arrest at 24 years old; I recovered faster than expected. I could've been there for 16, 18 days… but I was only there for 11. Having all that stuff hooked up on me, especially the catheter, was sensory hell and so I made it everyone else's problem that I was feeling so rotten. That being said, I found myself not nearly as emotional about this experience. Surprising as that may be, it all felt sort of surreal. Like it wasn't me laying in that hospital bed but someone completely different. Oh, I hated that more than anything. You know what the real kicker was? They said it was triggered by stress. That I should be more careful when viewing horror content, among other things. Imagine the one thing that brings you joy. Imagine the climax of your absolute euphoria, a high that knocks you away from the woes of reality, your favorite food, your favorite song. Imagine asking a question, and never getting to live to hear the answer, no you've been condemned to ignorance. It was as if they just told me I was going to be living off saltines for the rest of my life. It was like they defanged me. Naturally I dealt with it in my usual healthy coping mechanisms- being an insufferable prick. 

Consider this a footnote, but-

The thing that pushed me over the edge in the end is confusing and because I don't understand it, I feel almost embarrassed to admit the amount of pain it doled upon all my senses. It was one of the nurses, the way she smelled. Over all that sterile cleaner and sour dread from the hospital, somehow I could make out notes of chamomile and bergamot as she whisked away with a clipboard in hand, and suddenly I was struggling to keep my composure, because I

Why? Why was this happening? Why was I doing this here, where someone could see me? Sure, no one was in the room but I could feel the prickle of eyes at the back of my neck. I was already in the throes of a nervous breakdown though, I could feel the lump in my throat forming and suddenly I wished I hadn't gone and pushed away anyone who even looked at me kindly. 

If I kept going down that train of thought, I'd surely embarrass myself. I mean– it's  not as if I've never had a cup of tea before, or had the pleasure of smelling a lit bergamot candle. For some reason, the warmth in it together just knocked the wind out of me. How do you process grief if you don't even know why you're grieving? So I just sat there, swallowing convulsively and thinking about the fact that I built my walls so high, that nobody visited me in this god forsaken hospital over the holidays. ’Well, that's not fair, maybe they visited early when I wasn't conscious and they just got turned away because they weren't family’ I try to tell myself, but deep down I know nobody tried because I really am that unlikable of a person. It's not even something I've learned, it's been like this ever since I was a child. If I just keep telling myself it's all of this is worth it, then maybe one day it will be. I just have to keep clawing at the walls of this existence until I break through.

A Dream About A Ghost

I wake up in a dark bedroom, standing in the farthest corners of reality- stop me if you've heard this one before. It's not the shadows that thread themselves in my corporeal form that surprises me, nor is it the way the room seems warped with some macabre version of what you'd see in the daylight, when your fears aren't taking the steering wheel to your mind. 

No, it's the reaction of who I'm visiting that gives me pause for a moment. He's scared, yes. Just like the rest of them. His eyes are locked on me as his breath hitches in his throat.. but then his face smoothes in recognition. It's so jarring that it makes me pause, uncertain if I should continue on with what I set out to do, or if I should stay rooted to my spot like the ignoramus I am.

See, I had been under the impression that there were rules to this. I don't get to leave until I've played my part, and they can't leave until they play theirs. It's why they lay there paralyzed while I stick my fingers into their eyes. Most importantly though, is that we can't speak. And yet he looks at me with fond eyes and says, “Which one of him are you? You've visited before.” 

I feel deeply ashamed, like I should remember visiting him, but I don't. There's been times that I suspected I had these dreams and yet all I remember are vague shadows and screams when I wake up. He must've just been lost in that haze, because I'm trying to recall his memories, and I'm coming up with nothing. I want to ask him just how many of ’me’ are there out there? Who are you? But my tongue is weighed to the bottom of my mouth. 

So I settle for the next best thing, and wade in, closer. At this, he winces slightly, and I realize he knows exactly what I'm going to do to him, and as easy as it can be to lose myself to this… thing, this headspace I get into.. It's hard when he's reminding me that there's a part of me that's still human. I stare him over; the way his throat seems to twitch lightly with his breathing, the way he's watching me close in on him, like I'm nothing more than a tide coming into shore. He gives me a sad smile, but these waves are crashing all the same. I lift my hand over his face, and take a second to drink in his expression, hoping maybe somehow he'll do something to stop me. 

He doesn't. He just smiles and says, “I know you have to.” And I do, so I plunge my finger down into the pupil, and let myself break down into the quickening of his pulse again. 

It's all so hazy, like when you move a polaroid camera too much before taking a picture, but through that haze I can see that our gaze is deadlocked ahead to the water’s edge. The wind is howling, so much that I almost don't hear the faint calling of a name carrying over the crashing of waves against large broken down black rocks that speckle the shores. My gaze stays locked on the horizon, and there's nothing for a sickening moment. There's just the chill of the fog dense air weighing me down. I feel like a bug stuck in molasses, and it just doesn't seem fair. 

This guy, he tried so hard just to keep his head above water, to do the right thing and now he is trapped here, doomed to watch his life pass him by in a cave of his own making- and could anyone blame him? For letting the emptiness swallow him whole, when he had nothing but good intentions? The chill sinks down to my bones, and yet he doesn't shiver, he's just perfectly still. Like a picture. His breath is slow, but he's in shock, and he's just staring dead ahead, ignoring the calling of his name over the quietness of what could be forever. Could I be stuck here forever? If I stay trapped in this memory, in this body will I ever reach a point where I'm found and the nightmare is over, or will it go on and on until it feels dull and empty?..

There's a part of me that looks forward to these dreams. It feels healing. It gives me life and meaning, but this? I couldn't watch this, it was too much. So I tried despite everything to get him to move. It doesn't work like that though, It's a memory. I can't change the course of a memory no matter how much I try, and I was still trying to kick and scream through the waves that were weighing down my body. We aren't too different, this man and I, because he too is somewhere deep under the sea. Something is holding him there, and while it may not be the eye of god, we're still being held there by the very same thing- fear. This man truly might be doomed, I had to claw at the walls of this grave he's found himself in, and steal him from this fate before he was lost to the sands of time.. and I was shouting despite everything, despite it going against my very nature, 

“Don't be afraid..! Don't be afraid!”

I, of course, woke myself up. I was crying in my sleep, which took me aback because usually when I have these dreams, I feel like adrenaline is lighting me up, and the acrid taste of fear in the back of my throat- I didn't taste anything. All I got from this dream was a profound sense of loss.

The Eye At The Bottom of Emerald Coast

This post is an update to where I have been for the last 2 weeks. I plan to write everything that I experienced, everything I heard, everything I saw– in excruciating detail for me. For my own peace of mind, so if you are perturbed by talk related to medical emergencies or long winded explanations about things as trivial as my feelings, then feel free to turn away. I won’t fault you for it, but this post is going up all the same, because I feel like this moment in my life meant something. It had to.

So, what happened? I'm just going to rip the bandage off and say, I had a cardiac event at work, and had to be taken away in an ambulance. I don't like having to share this because I feel like I always have something dramatic happening in this disaster of a life I've built for myself. I thought moving from my hometown and getting a medical degree was supposed to make my life more stable, but the groundwork I've created is crumbling around me, and the fall from grace started with a workplace argument. “I don't get why you don't trust us, we have been so nice to you, and yet you keep pulling this shit-”

“Look, I can't just turn trust on like a switch, Larry. If I could, I would just to get you off my back but don't sit there and lie to me. I know you all have been talking about me in secret. What was it about? Is it because of what I said about the freezer room? Is it- oh my god, did you find out why I left my last job?” I panicked, but the look on Larry's face told me that it was not information he was privy to… yet. “I do not think it's a coincidence that you all suddenly fall silent the second I enter the room. So am I just being paranoid or do you have something you want to tell me?”

“You're just being paranoid!!” He throws his hands up with his shouted exclamation, several people glance over at us. “Look, dude… Okay, we have talked a little bit but only because we're worried about you!” I raised an eyebrow of disbelief. “Seriously? After we invited you out to grab drinks with us, you still don't think we're friends?”

“I…don't  know what I think.”

I could feel the tension rising up in the back of my throat, like bile. Everything in the room pulsed as I took in a shaking breath, but Larry just pushed on. “Why are you so damn negative? I just don't get it, man. You know when you aren't going on about how the world is awful, you're actually fun to talk to-”

“Listen, bad always happen to me- I'm just reporting the facts,”

“This is exactly what I'm talking about-! Nobody is out to get you! I like you, Julius! I like you!” and I tried to say something in rebuttal but… I threw up right there at the table with no warning…and it was pure black, the texture gelatinous and bitter. I thought about how someone had told me once that black vomit is a tell towards a serious health issue and that you are close to death- and I know that's because of the coffee ground appearance of vomit during a gastrointestinal bleed, I know that, okay?  I could tell that wasn't what this was because it was downright acrylic looking in consistency,  but it was too late, the fear that I was dying was already firmly planted in my head. I could feel the prickle of eyes on me, making me feel even more panicked. “Oh shoot, let me go get some paper towels,” Larry said, but Gilbert was already making strides over to the paper towel roll on the counter in the breakroom. My head was swimming, and my shoulder began to throb so hard that it trailed up the side of my neck and that just freaked me out even more.That must've been when I lost consciousness, because I don't really recall much afterwards. I think Larry might've tried to coax me out of my seat, saying; “Okay, let's get you sitting on the ground before you pass out.”but besides that, it's a blur. All I wanted was to stand up and shake it off, and show them that everything was alright– but it was like I was trying to keep my head above water when the waves were crashing all the same, silencing my cries for help and pulling me under. I fought it the whole way down.

For a painful moment, it was just dark, and the only thing I was conscious of was that feeling where you've been dropped from a great height, that rush of adrenaline in a quick pulsing ’thump!’ and then I was far under the currents of emerald bay. The water was dark and rich, and it overwhelmed all my senses. It was all encompassing, in a terrifying way that made it impossible to tell which direction the surface was. For a second there it was nice because at least this felt constant, you know? It almost felt safe, in a way that was terribly deceptive. 'Thump!' There was something there, under the ocean floor. I couldn't see it, but it was there, its heartbeat shaking the tranquility of death.  I could feel it with absolute certainty. It made the sea pulse like a womb, and so I swam down towards the heartbeat that was drumming on, shaking the walls of my soul.

Because it's not fair. I played my whole life by the books. I kept my head down, I worked myself to the bone, and I always followed what was expected of me. I never put myself out there. As I kept kicking my feet, all I could think about was all the hobbies I repressed, all the people I could've kissed, all the things I could've brought into question- it wasn't fair. I wasn't supposed to die like this, never finding the closure I was searching for. I just wanted to understand who I am, I just wanted to know- was that really so awful? 

’Thump!’

And there it was, at the bottom of emerald bay, the thing that's haunted me, the explanation of my entire life looking right through me as if I wasn't merely my flesh. One, pulsing eye, flecked with the dark stars of infinite timelines and realities. I spent my whole life feeling lost, like I didn't know who I was, and now it was looking me right in the face like a macabre joke. I thought back to all that time I spent asking people about their experiences, and trying to selfishly fit myself into some space I could belong- the Supernatural kin community, the Madoka Magica kin community, the Mouth Washing kin community especially and it was all because of this thing. This thing I don't even understand. I wanted to, in spite of everything. I almost wanted to laugh at how bad it hurt…and because I have a sense of humor, as I reached out to stab into the pupil with my sharpened fingers, I thought to myself,

“I hope this hurts”

Some things about going into cardiac arrest at 24 years old; I recovered faster than expected. I could've been there for 16, 18 days… but I was only there for 11. Having all that stuff hooked up on me, especially the catheter, was sensory hell and so I made it everyone else's problem that I was feeling so rotten. That being said, I found myself not nearly as emotional about this experience. Surprising as that may be, it all felt sort of surreal. Like it wasn't me laying in that hospital bed but someone completely different. Oh, I hated that more than anything. You know what the real kicker was? They said it was triggered by stress. That I should be more careful when viewing horror content, among other things. Imagine the one thing that brings you joy. Imagine the climax of your absolute euphoria, a high that knocks you away from the woes of reality, your favorite food, your favorite song. Imagine asking a question, and never getting to live to hear the answer, no you've been condemned to ignorance. It was as if they just told me I was going to be living off saltines for the rest of my life. It was like they defanged me. Naturally I dealt with it in my usual healthy coping mechanisms- being an insufferable prick. 

Consider this a footnote, but-

The thing that pushed me over the edge in the end is confusing and because I don't understand it, I feel almost embarrassed to admit the amount of pain it doled upon all my senses. It was one of the nurses, the way she smelled. Over all that sterile cleaner and sour dread from the hospital, somehow I could make out notes of chamomile and bergamot as she whisked away with a clipboard in hand, and suddenly I was struggling to keep my composure, because I

Why? Why was this happening? Why was I doing this here, where someone could see me? Sure, no one was in the room but I could feel the prickle of eyes at the back of my neck. I was already in the throes of a nervous breakdown though, I could feel the lump in my throat forming and suddenly I wished I hadn't gone and pushed away anyone who even looked at me kindly. 

If I kept going down that train of thought, I'd surely embarrass myself. I mean– it's  not as if I've never had a cup of tea before, or had the pleasure of smelling a lit bergamot candle. For some reason, the warmth in it together just knocked the wind out of me. How do you process grief if you don't even know why you're grieving? So I just sat there, swallowing convulsively and thinking about the fact that I built my walls so high, that nobody visited me in this god forsaken hospital over the holidays. ’Well, that's not fair, maybe they visited early when I wasn't conscious and they just got turned away because they weren't family’ I try to tell myself, but deep down I know nobody tried because I really am that unlikable of a person. It's not even something I've learned, it's been like this ever since I was a child. If I just keep telling myself it's all of this is worth it, then maybe one day it will be. I just have to keep clawing at the walls of this existence until I break through.

This Is The End Of The World

Can you feel the earth turning slower than it ever had before? So much has happened over the last couple of years, and the weight is almost too much. We’ve seen war, and illness. We’ve watched a fool become king to this country, and the changing of the seasons that is no doubt melting down the icecaps- hell, we even gained a second moon in September. It’s enough to make anyone begin to worry if this is downright biblical.

I remember during my childhood, the idea of an apocalypse being just on the horizon of our lives was something so often talked about. It was spoken about as if it were a concrete fact, and that one day everything we hold near and dear was going to burn in hellfire. What stuck with me most though,was how they would talk to us children, about how we had to be strong, and how we were so special. About how we wouldn't let our minds be poisoned by those outside of the community. Now I’m 24 years old, and I’m living far away from my hometown… and still, the earth continues to turn, my heart is still beating. 

I try to remind myself that I’m different now, and that I can look at things from a less coerced mindset. The fear is always there though, burning white hot in my lungs. I think about my poor grandmother, on her deathbed, how she looked me in the eyes and said, “You aren’t Jules...who are you?” Her last moments, I think about often whenever I think about the end of the world. 

Maybe the earth ended long ago, in another timeline far from this one. Maybe everyone we’ve ever loved, every fear we ever hated- maybe it all went up in smoke and we can’t remember it because remembering would mean enduring the fear all over again. Sometimes times I think I can feel a tension thick in the air, like I’m running out of time, and a million breaths gasp in fear all at once, all over the globe- and that feeling terrifies me because I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I may have played a hand in it.

 Can you feel that tension? Can you feel the earth’s blood and hunger? Well, maybe we can use this chance to turn things around. Let’s save the planet from itself, we have to be brave because we live in a world of constantly being frightened. They say it on our televisions, in articles and books that we should be afraid of our future and that things look grim, but I think there’s still hope for us yet. We just have to take matters into our own hands, and make this world worth living in, a little at a time. We can fix this. It’s our last chance to forgive ourselves.

I Have Never Been A Hero

I’ve had time to reflect upon my dream, and it has led me to some revelations about my own nature, and what lines I’m willing to cross in order to find the truth I’m so desperately craving. I think that the reason the dream bothered me so much is that I don’t know if I would’ve done differently if I had another chance. I have never been a hero. 

I wanted to once, you know–

Even before I had so many wonderful tumblr users trying to help me find my identity, even before I put it out there into the universe with absolute certainty that I was a villain, people have always compared me to the antagonist of the story. 

It's a vibe I'm giving or something I'm doing, maybe it's the sins I carry on my back. 

I remember reading all these books as a child, and even when I outgrew them and I'd be loathe to admit to what would indefinitely ruin the academic image I have so painstakingly built up around me like a shell-  the classic fairytale story always held a special place in my heart. 

I would sit there with my eyes scanning over every line, rereading the best parts, the ones that really made you feel like you were there with the protagonist, and I would think, 

‘I want to be the hero. I want to save the princess from a tower and defeat the big bad and live happily ever after!’ …but I don't think I'm that. These things that I do, digging into the depths of people’s anxieties, and breathing them in as if it were my own.. I don’t think it’s a noble cause, to tear into other’s fears in hopes of finding my own closure. So I’m not a hero. 

People seldom are, it's rare to find that kind of excellence out in the world but even with all the signs pointing that I'm a villain, or a monster, or god forbid a world ender– it is flattering that so many people reached out to me, when my mood has been so low. There is something about hearing about so many wonderful stories of others that keeps me tethered, and for that I'm grateful to all of you. The beauty in your experiences is what makes everything worth it- both your triumph and strife. So please, bare with me. Even if I am a villain.

What Does Fear Mean To You?

Does horror and terror mean different things to you? When someone says they "fear" something vs, they are "scared of" something, does it draw up different feelings in response to the word choice?

 Fear is the oldest form of entertainment, humans have been telling tales of horror to each other since the dawn of man, and in fact I'm quite sure Ann Radcliffe once said there was a difference between horror and terror but my brain is too muddled to really remember.

I just find it interesting how one word can inspire a completely different feeling than the other, when they basically mean the same thing, and how you can find yourself completely enthralled and head over heels for one while denouncing the other.

 Like for me, terror is an ache in your bones and closer to dread. It's something terrible that dawns on you, and weighs you down but horror is energizing. Horror is what breathes cortisol and adrenaline in you and makes you feel alive. 

Even more interesting, these two words could mean something completely different to someone else. I wish I knew what other people feel when they see two different words like this example. Like if there's a common consensus on what they feel like and what makes them different and how they compare to how I feel them?

‘Cause I concede, it feels like all the screws in my head are being tightened, and I downright crave the acrid taste of fear on the back of my tongue like a 9v battery. I can't help myself, okay? My will to resist has always been low.

not sure how to start this right but hi there! im mod star from the non canon kin blog :) i really hope this doesn't sound weird but after reading your ask & your profile i thought you seem really interesting & wanted to share some things in hopes they're useful to you in any way.

from your description & lack of an identified source it made me think you could look into oc kin? i'm kin of one of my own ocs, from a universe i've been creating & expanding on for around 6-7 years by now, so perhaps oc kin is something you could try looking into! i also thought of something along the lines of general cryptid kin & naturally villain kin, i don't know if that's very helpful to you but you know, i'm sorta going for the vibes you give off in the hopes it can maybe lead you somewhere? awfully sorry if any of this feels a bit vague, feel free to ask for clarification if needed!

Thank you for reaching out to me, Star. Again, thank you so much for taking a chance on the ask that I sent you. I have been looking into OC kin more extensively as of late because it was actually suggested that I research it recently by someone else as well. It definitely is a strong lead, so I will take your suggestions into heavy kinsideration.