#i am typing w one hand rn so forgive any typos please hgfdjh

[ghostiezone]

hello hello hello good evening talk bout sad cwilbur thoughts?? i am sitting in front of u with my chin in my hands i wanna listen to rambling.

ok so im listening gto this song right. and like. not to be all sadboy about it but. i dont necessarily consider this to be a wilbur song BUT some of the lyrics r fitting so it works for this.

“like tv magazines and coffee beans, i have such simple needs” he really gets fixated on little things after he comes back. Little details he took for granted before spending 13 years in what was essentially a sensory deprivation tank modeled after his worst nightmares. But there are so many things, so many little tiny things that he never noticed before that he gets a little lost in it sometimes. The way the stars reflect off the river. The ants caught in a death spiral on the ground by the first step up to the van. The tiny bits of moss starting to sprout in stationary tires. the subtle shifts in the direction of the wind every time he steps outside. the texture of every individual loose thread in his sweater and how it feels when they brush his skin. it gets overwhelming. 

little too overwhelming. maybe he develops the mildest case of agoraphobia. ranboo hasnt been to the van for a while (and won’t be back for even longer, though he doesn’t know that yet), he hasn’t seen quackity and hasn’t had the energy to make the trek over to the desert (sand is too much. just the thought of sand touching his skin in any way when he feels like this is enough to cause a physical reaction). he doesnt want to leave. doesnt wanna go anywhere because he knows no matter what, some tiny thing is just gonna set him off again. but he wants to see people. limbo has left him with a warped sense of object permanence when it comes to people. if nobody’s around to see him as alive, how does he know this isn’t just a trick? how does he know he won’t wake up the next morning to grey walls and cold concrete floors and a numbness that seeps into his bones and realize that this has all just been another elaborate nightmare conjured up by his personal hell to torture him some more? is wilbur soot even real if nobody’s around to see him? 

“its not agoraphobia, its just a lack of air supply that keeps me up at night” leave it to wilbur to deny that anything’s wrong with him, even when he can’t sleep because he’s too busy hyperventilating his way through a panic attack because the knife slipped while he was cutting vegetables and barely grazed his finger. 

“i’m not momentarily out of my mind” << this is just a cwilbur lyric. i think i might use this as the title for a fic in the future lmao

“i dont need to be hospitalized to make me realize that ive got a problem, no i haven’t, let me be” the constant tug of war game in his mind of desperately needing to be around people after being isolated for so long and the self hatred in the back of his mind telling him that he doesn’t deserve to be around people after he hurt them the way he did. the struggle of pulling people closer because you’re desperate to be noticed, to be real in someone’s eyes other than your own, but having punished yourself for so long that the comfort becomes uncomfortable so you just push them away again in this ugly cycle 

anyway. thats all the significant lyrics, i just. holds cwilbur in my hands. this bad boy can hold so much mental illness in him. will never rid myself of the hc that he gets overstimulated by every little unexpected sensation. pain hurts Too Much, sounds are Too Loud, lights are Too Bright. everything is so much. makes him want to pull all of his hair out but he can’t even do that because it hurts too much. he forgets that he needs to eat or drink or sleep, so sometimes he’ll just unintentionally push himself to the point of exhaustion and that definitely doesn’t help with the mental burnout. when pillows are too soft he just lays on the floor of the van using his coat as a weighted blanket because it’s cold and hard and he’s used to sleeping on the floor of a train station. on nights he really can’t sleep he’ll go lay out on the grass and stare at the stars like he used to do when he lived in Pogtopia (until he realizes he can feel every individual blade of grass on his skin and the vague glow of las nevadas’ light pollution is too bright and he can hear the screech of phantoms that have been drawn to his lack of sleep and he gives up to go back to the comfort of cold hardwood floors)