#existential journey

[luvinaeverdene]

Pather Panchali (1955) Directed by Satyajit Ray

[writingoncloudydays]

The Chronicles of Stanley: Beyond the Nexus

Summary: follows Stanley, whose routine office life is disrupted when the guiding narrator disappears. Left to navigate a surreal and transforming office space, Stanley encounters conflicting narrators and discovers hidden worlds within his workplace. Through introspection and exploration, he rejects imposed narratives, embraces his agency, and embarks on a journey through a portal into the Nexus. There, he finds a sky city and begins a quest of self-discovery and adventure across diverse realms, shaping his destiny amidst the complexities of a multiverse.

Warnings: Mild Psychological Distress, Mind Manipulation, Mild Language, Mild Peril.

Words 0.74k

Stanley sat at his desk, the familiar hum of the office building now resonating with a newfound sense of possibility. The once predictable rhythm of his life had been irrevocably altered, and he was invigorated by the uncertainty ahead. The return of the original narrator, now an ally rather than a controller, marked the beginning of a partnership built on mutual respect and curiosity.

As Stanley gazed at the monitor before him, he noticed something strange. The screen, once a static array of spreadsheets and emails, now displayed a shimmering portal, its edges pulsating with a soft, inviting glow. He felt a nudge, not from an external force but from within, urging him to explore further.

“Are you ready, Stanley?” The narrator’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “This portal leads to worlds beyond your imagination, places where your choices will shape not just your destiny but the fabric of reality itself.” Stanley took a deep breath and nodded. He had faced his fears and emerged stronger; it was time to embrace the unknown.

When he stepped through the portal, he was immediately enveloped in a swirl of colours and sensations. Stanley stood in the middle of a vast, open landscape when the vortex subsided. The sky was a rich tapestry of swirling hues, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light.

“Welcome to the Nexus,” the narrator explained. “This is the crossroads of countless worlds, where possibilities converge. Here, you can choose your path, explore new realms, and uncover the secrets of existence.”

Stanley felt a surge of excitement. He had never imagined such a place could exist, let alone that he would have the opportunity to explore it. He took a step forward, and as he did, pathways began to materialize before him, each leading to a different world.

One path led to a city suspended in the sky, its towers connected by shimmering bridges and bustling with life. Another path descended into a lush forest, where trees towered like skyscrapers, and the air was thick with the scent of flowers. A third path wound through a crystalline desert, where the sands sparkled like diamonds under a brilliant sun.

Stanley felt the weight of choice upon him, but instead of fear, he felt exhilaration. The paths before him represented physical journeys and opportunities for growth, learning, and transformation.

“I am here with you, Stanley,” the narrator said, his voice a reassuring presence. “But remember, the choices are yours. Your story is now your own to write.”

With a resolute nod, Stanley chose the path to the sky city. As he walked, he felt a sense of purpose and determination. The town rose to meet him, its towers gleaming in the sunlight. As he crossed the threshold into this new world, he felt the eyes of its inhabitants upon him, curious and welcoming.

The sky city was a marvel of engineering and beauty. Its streets were lined with trees and flowers, and the air was filled with laughter and music. Stanley felt a sense of belonging as if he had found a place where he could be himself.

A group of citizens greeted him, their faces alight with curiosity. “Welcome, traveller,” one of them said, a tall woman with eyes that sparkled like the stars. We have been expecting you. There is much to see and learn here. Come, let us show you our world.”

As Stanley followed his new companions, he marvelled at the wonders around him. He saw gardens suspended in mid-air, libraries filled with books that seemed to come alive with the touch of a hand, and workshops where ideas were transformed into reality with a mere thought.

Throughout his journey, the narrator remained comforting, offering insights and guidance but never dictating his actions. Stanley realized that this partnership was the key to his growth. Together, they could explore the depths of these new worlds and uncover their mysteries.

As the days turned into weeks, Stanley became integral to the sky city, contributing his unique perspective and skills. He discovered his journey was about exploring new places and understanding himself and his place in the universe.

[compassionmattersmost]

Poem: Lost on the Wrong Planet

On this strange world, where I seem lost, alone,In realms unknown, I wander, not quite sure.The sky above feels distant, cold as stone,A foreign land, its ways I can’t endure. Each step I take, the ground feels out of place,As if I’ve strayed from where I should belong.In shadows cast, I search for some embrace,Yet find a path that’s fraught and ever long. The voices here speak languages…

[turiyatitta]

The Profound Journey

Understanding Mystical Experiences and Spiritual Awakenings**Introduction**:In the pursuit of understanding life’s profound mysteries, we often come across terms like ‘mystical experience’ and ‘spiritual awakening.’ While these concepts are intertwined in the grand tapestry of spiritual exploration, they hold distinct meanings and implications for the seeker. In this blog post, we delve into the…

[vintage-tigre]

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation

Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).

Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.

It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.

You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.

But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.

"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.

You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.

"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."

His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.

"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"

Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"

You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."

For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"

It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.

"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."

Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."

You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."

Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."

You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."

For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.

As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.

"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."

He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.

Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.

The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.

You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.

To think is to exist.

He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.

You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.

You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."

Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.

"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."

His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.

You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."

Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.

"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"

You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."

There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.

For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.

"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."

You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."

Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.

As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.

In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.

But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.

You. The Memokeeper.

A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.

When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.

"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."

Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.

"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."

"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"

There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.

"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"

You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."

Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?

"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."

He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"

"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."

The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.

And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.

"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."

You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.

"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."

For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?

In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.

Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨

Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍‍♀️

[sweetberry-roebuck]

Hey y'know when the current moment is transcendently beautiful and meaningful and true, but you know that it is temporary and you can't help but feel existentially haunted by that fact. You know when you are experiencing beautiful heartrending art and you feel lost in the moment and then its over. You know how you'll experience art or human connection or a walk on a nice day and you know the sunlight on your skin will fade and you'll forget how it felt to be this warm.

You know in video games when there is one experience-definingly gleeful or touching or viscerally emotional moment that soon ends and leaves you with something more complicated, more doomed, more cyclical? You know? You know how it feels to dig your claws and teeth into a moment and try as hard as you can to feel it and to remember it and to make it part of yourself? Do you know??

[silverspotted]

faces of devotion — ;

the gaze of resolve

little dove grows wings; 298 AC

sansa stark ; game of thrones

joan of arc; 1865

john everett millais

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

The idea that GRRM is anti Tolkien is particularly funny because ASOIAF is sprinkled with rather intricate (and even passionate) homages to LOTR. And I can’t help but think of how Tolkien’s Fellowship, more specifically the Hobbits, may have inspired GRRM’s Night’s Watch. Jon Snow, for starters, is in many ways a combination of LOTR’s Frodo and Aragorn. And in the same way that Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin are unexpected heroes in LOTR (because who looks to a hobbit as the face of an epic adventure?), Jon the bastard becomes the leader of a ragtag of socially disenfranchised men (in the form of the NW) who are anything but heroic. Sure there’s the odd knight or noble in there, but the NW is quite full of criminals and the very worst of the social order. The hobbits aren’t the strongest or the sharpest but they become the face of the fight against Sauron. And the NW, while being severely undermanned and under-equipped, has become the main force that stands against winter. GRRM even adds a love letter to Tolkien’s Sam Gamgee by adding his on Sam - Sam Tarly - who acts as a moral compass and counselor to Jon, in the same ways that Sam Gamgee is key to Frodo’s journey. And just like Frodo, Jon gets his very own pair of jokester friends, one of whine is even named Pyp. So it’s all very beautiful and nice, and we should talk about it more because it’s super evident that GRRM is a massive Tolkien fanboy. But I do have to say tho, GRRM’s take on Gandalf is exceedingly hilarious just because Melisandre is famously very bad at her job.

[obsidianquill]

"I am a part of all that I have met."

— Alfred Lord Tennyson

[thestuffiammadeof]

And in all the healing you do,

all the trying and failing and trying again,

the small steps, the big ones,

the backtracking,

and the painfully shallow forward momentum,

in all that,

there are some things that will remain forever lost.

You will never regain the hearing in your right ear.

The teeth ripped from your jaw.

Or the soft skin you once had.

The trauma will remain in parts of your body as a token of what you once were,

and who you will never be again.

Every part a thread in the tapestry of who you are,

and yet none of it could conjure an image that truly reflects the painter who once saw.

[luvinaeverdene]

Nights of Cabiria (1957) Directed by Federico Fellini

[namedforvalor]

Scenes from The Vampire Chronicles that genuinely made me laugh out loud: The Vampire Lestat edition. (spoilers)

Really loved Lestat waking up, wandering around a bit, then approaching a group of punks and casually saying "I'm a vampire" and they're just like "oh cool" followed by them finally asking his name and telling him he's in a book. Lestat standing under a street lamp reading the entirety of IWTV in one sitting was a perfect way to start this.

Lestat standing in the church after being chased through town by a hoard of vampires, meeting Armand who is essentially like “can you stop being an asshole? I’ve convinced these idiots that I know god and I’ve established rules and you’re fucking up my game by breaking them” and Lestat is like “…right” and then immediately starts screaming that Armand is in the church at the top of his lungs while Armand chases him around telling him to shut up. You can't write this shit.

When Lestat is in the crypts and Allesandra and Armand are trying to convince him to join them and she's basically like "You can't live with mortals, you'll eventually start to love them" and Lestat, so seriously, is like "Oh.. It takes you three hundred years to love something, you monsters? I loved them from the first night. Were you awful in your mortal lives as well?" like my god read them to filth.

[betweenthetimeandsound]

--"crying at the empty sea of faith" inspired by chapter titles from Pictures and Tears: A History of People Who Have Cried in Front of Paintings

A girl waits on the edge of time, with curls undoing themselves like knots tied to a basket offering an unworthy sacrifice. Everything inverts on itself; knowledge only exists on diluted ink, silence rules this wretched realm.

But a rowboat drifts on by; the rider lost to their own inhibitions and grandiose ambitions. Gold drags out onto the oars; peaches rot and wait for the betrayer to come and steal one on the way to heaven.

Who would want to test their luck against a viper? Who wants to step in an empty sea of faith and watch as everything dissolves like a pearl in vintage wine?

The girl steps onto wet sand, glass and syringes penetrating through her soles; escape becomes a mirage like a ballerina in the desert.

Twisted hands only prophecy through linear time; universes open themselves, only to leave fragmented minds floating and crashing on Vela's sails before falling into Eridanus.

Time unravels, a memory loses a silver key, little mercies find themselves shipwrecked with pearls of sorrow. Marigolds meet the moonrise and dissolves; golden waves crash on crystalline shores, an altar for a thousand sacrifices.

A sour tongue keeps a girl alive; but leaves her on borrowed time. To flourish is to surrender to a virulent sea; cinerous dreams give way to a bejeweled dawn. --Elda Mengisto

[turiyatitta]

Embracing the Veil of Night

A Journey Through Darkness to DawnAs the inky shroud of night stretches across the sky, it offers not just a canvas for the stars, but a metaphorical landscape for the soul’s dark night. In these periods of profound introspection and uncertainty, the world seems to pause, holding its breath along with us as we confront the spectres of our fears, doubts, and the vast unknown that the darkness…

[vintage-tigre]

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age."

• HP Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu"