#my heart its growing weak. my psyche is withered

[ryuseitai]

today is such a chiaki day in my brain. i mean every day is like this in m y brain but its like overwhelming i keep feeling sick and short of breath.icant do this

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 10: CHILDREN OF MAH

QUEST SUMMARY:

The Mahjarrat are dying, and they want answers as to why. To get them, they must journey back to Freneskae at the behest of Zaros, who promises them freedom from their Rituals once and for all. When Zamorak gets wind of his intentions, it leads to the two deities meeting for the first time since the great betrayal…

CHAPTER 4 - DYING LIGHT

According to legends, muspah were created when Mah had some of her most vile nightmares.

There were two ways to banish them - either pray to Mah that only a few had manifested and try to fight them off, or perform the Ritual of Rejuvenation.

They were thick, clawing creatures in putrid shades of purple, yellow and crimson. Spikes protruded from the rocky shell that covered their back, twisted and contorted in different angles that left no opening, no weakness. Their dagger-like teeth were skewed and positioned haphazardly throughout their cavernous mouths, instant death for anyone unfortunate enough to get a good look. Their forked tongue resembled a crude blade, hurriedly smithed in a sickly green ore, dripping with gurgling venom. Eyes, by the gods their eyes… they glowed so brightly that in the darkest depths of Freneskae, through the thickest fog and the heaviest storms, you could see the end approaching.

“Everyone huddle together!” Wahisietel commanded, backing into the centre of the Ritual circle. “If they attack, we-”

But it was too late. Suddenly, the muspah were among them. They had jumped, sprinted, maybe even teleported among the Mahjarrat, who scrambled away from their predators, firing wildly at the foul monsters.

Zaros was shaking. The effort it took to uphold the spell was hard enough without the threat of muspah swarming them. As it stood, he had no way of defending himself. “I cannot lose this connection to the Marker and to Mah. Azzanadra, shield me. If this link is disrupted, there may be no way of reestablishing it.”

“Yes my lord!” Azzanadra hurried to his god’s side, darting his eyes in all directions to retaliate against anything that dared threaten his lord.

Unlike his Mahjarrat brethren, Khazard had never encountered a muspah before. So when he saw the clawed abomination dash over the horizon, looking barge straight into him, he was too stunned to dodge out of the way. Grunting as he was bowled to the floor, Khazard could barely see through the dust and tears in his eyes, so the muspah was nothing but a nightmarish silhouette above him, claws raised and poised to strike.

But then it struck; a light, brilliant and shining, like a concentrated crystalline burst of energy, right into the back of the muspah. The creature shrieked and howled in agony before crumbling to the ground, right next to Khazard. Panting, Khazard scrambled to his feet, wide eyes locking onto the being that saved him.

Seren stared straight back, her many eyes fixated upon the Mahjarrat. Then, she flew down from the cliff edge and next to Zaros, disdainfully regarding her brother as she demanded, “What are you doing here, Zaros?”

Zaros turned his head slightly towards Seren, the energy pulsing around him still locking him to the Marker. “I have been pulled here, same as you, sister.”

“I came because I felt Mah’s distress,” Seren contended, a bitter edge to her voice. “I assume you are here for your own selfish ends?”

“Not so, sister. You have felt the draw. Mah is draining us of our lifeforce. If something is not done, we will all wither,” he motioned with his head to the Mahjarrat. “And they will go first.”

“A Ritual, then?”

Shaking his head, Zaros replied, “It is not enough to sustain them. Not this time.”

When Seren turned back to the Mahjarrat, she saw another muspah gaining on Bilrach, zooming in from the rear while Bilrach was distracted with another opponent. Seren shot a blast of her energy at the muspah, connecting to the rocky protective shell of its back. She expected it to topple over instantaneously; the strike should have been fatal, but instead, it merely seemed to aggravate the creature further. Fortunately, Bilrach was aware of his predator now and managed to gain some distance. Shocked, Seren forced another blast of energy at the muspah, launching what she thought was an excessively overpowered strike at it.

Finally, the creature crumbled. 

Looking down at her hands, Seren couldn’t understand. She could exterminate hoards of muspah with ease if needed - why were these causing so much trouble? Deep down in her core, she had an inkling, and she sensed that Zaros knew too.

Wahisietel was just as terrified as he was baffled. The musaph had never moved like that before, and they had never penetrated the Ritual Site. Something was wrong... 

“We have to perform the Ritual,” Akthanakos wearily shot down another muspah, his life essence being sucked out of him with every attempt to defend himself. “It is the only way to banish these apparitions!”

“But we can't perform the Ritual with these things clawing at us!” Enakhra shouted back, panting heavily as she fought off another attack.

Hazeel was shaking his head, his eyes glazing over with the exertion. “I don't understand. Why are these muspah so different?”

“As Mah grows weaker, she grows more desperate,” Zaros explained, acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, even with Azzanadra’s protection. He turned to Seren. “These nightmares will only continue to grow stronger with each passing minute. Sister, we must do something to rid the Ritual Site of Mah’s nightmares before they overwhelm us.”

“What would you have me do, Zaros?” Seren snapped, feeling the anguish of the gathered Mahjarrat infect her very core. “I cannot fight her manifestations by myself while you perform the Ritual!”

“And you will not be able to. As long as Mah draws breath, we will succumb. If not to her manifestations, then to her drain on our lifeforce.”

Zaros’ insinuations slithered their way into Seren’s mind. Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Do you think this is what Mah wants?” Zaros’ sharp tone had a pleading edge to it. “If she was conscious of the consequences of her actions, do you think she would accede to them?”

Seren was incredulous. Her seething tone quivered, “I will not let you kill our own mother!”

“Then you must do it,” Zaros solemnly but firmly declared, emphasising, “They will all perish, sister...”

Seren’s hollow eyes held Zaros’ for a long while before wandering numbly over to the gathered Mahjarrat. They were fighting for their lives, for the survival of their race, just like they were the first time she came to them on Freneskae.

Gulping, Seren let the guilt wash over her once more. If her greatest mistake was the curse of tethering she inflicted upon the elves, then her relationship with the Mahjarrat was a close second.

Lowering her head, Seren said nothing as she flew up to Mah’s side.

The elder god was grumbling, groaning, her stone-assembled features creaking with every bitter movement. The nightmare pulsed though her, tearing through her psyche like daggers through flesh. So many times Seren had seen Mah in this treacherous state. Once Zaros departed Freneskae, Mah was devastated. She was barely lucid, and even when she was, she was unable to separate dreams from reality. Her screams would echo across the mountains, causing violent earthquakes as her pain intensified.

Creations spawned from her dreams - the Children of Mah, their race was known as, and tribes formed among them. The Mahjarrat were the only remaining tribe. Seren theorised Mah was trying to create another Zaros, to fill the void his absence had created. Instead, she created a race of lost, scared and weak creations, left to build a society out of the ashes of their harsh world. Seren came to them, and she taught them all she could to survive on Freneskae... but at a cost.

When Mah’s screams shook the world, Seren encouraged the Mahjarrat to perform a Ritual of Enervation - it would drain Mah of some of her power, settling her fury and allowing the Mahjarrat to breed. When Mah’s nightmares caused the creation of muspah, Seren encouraged the Mahjarrat to journey to the Ritual Marker and sacrifice one of their own to banish the creatures, returning to Mah some of that lost power.

Mah loved her creations. Seren knew that, as she saw countless parents love their children upon leaving Freneskae. But her love was overwhelming. Zaros felt smothered by Mah and left Freneskae, leaving Seren alone to care for her. Those were dark days, her moods travelling between deep depression and intense fury. Seren alone had to handle her. But nothing lasts forever, even for an elder god.

“I was powerless... nothing I did or could do would ever be enough…” Seren found herself whimpering, heavy eyes resting upon the deity.

Eventually, Seren had left Freneskae too, hoping to find something in the cosmos that could help Mah’s suffering. She had found so many wondrous things in her travels, including the heart of the universe itself - Gielinor, a perfect world.

But nothing to save her mother.

“I never wanted to abandon you, Mah.”

The sounds of battle below the clifftop echoed and reverberated around the world, alongside the low rumblings of an impending earthquake. Mah’s face contorted again, a pained shriek settling into a hollow scowl, lava dripping from her cracked features.

Tentatively, Seren approached Mah, holding out a hand to rest against her cheek. “I am so sorry, mother. I think I always knew in my heart that it would come to this. If I had only known sooner... I could have saved you so much pain. You deserved better. You gave us all your love, in your own way. So great and complex, forever doomed to be misunderstood. You will suffer no more, and your children will thrive. Forgive me…”

Seren’s hand started to glow a fearsome shade of icy white, tendrils of energy sprouting out and wrapping around Mah like vines.

It was over quick, hauntingly so. A creature as old as the universe, gone in a heartbeat.

Seren watched Mah’s head lull lifelessly to the side, excess lava dripping out of her mouth until it was nothing but a trickle.

“Curse you, Zaros…” Seren clenched her fists, her entire body shaking and quivering. Seren knew there was a web her brother had weaved, and it had led to this very moment. She couldn’t quite explain how, or why, but she knew. She knew her brother like a mirror image of herself, and she would never forgive him for this.

Due to their weakened state, the Mahjarrat were struggling with the onslaught of muspah. Overly powered muspah at that, ones that subverted a lot of what was known of the creatures. What’s worse was that one of the Mahjarrat’s most powerful numbers, Azzanadra, was occupied protecting Zaros.

Wahisietel didn’t know how long they could hold out, despite reassurances from Zaros that the muspah would disappear soon enough. He had a plan, and Wahisietel did not wish to question his deity. But as another muspah shrugged off an ice barrage, Wahisietel found himself wishing for the hastening of Zaros’ plan.

Then, suddenly, the muspah he was tangling with collapsed into a blurry haze of smoke and ash.

Breathlessly, Wahisietel let the spell he was preparing disintegrate in his palms. Shooting his head around, he saw that the rest of the muspah had met the same fate.

The rest of the Mahjarrat looked equally confused, alongside their relief. Azzanadra was the first one to speak up, beginning, “My lord, what has-”

Suddenly, the surrounding Mahjarrat were engulfed in a blinding white energy. It lifted them high into the air, weaving its way around their bodies and into their very core. The entire sky erupted into a wave of light that emanated from the Marker.

When the Mahjarrat were dropped to the floor, their skin had returned - no longer were they weak and skeletal. What’s more, Wahisietel felt a power surging through his veins like no other. No previous Ritual had made him feel this… alive. This powerful, this invulnerable… like he was walking one step closer to godhood. Turning to look at Azzanadra, he saw traces of fear in the stoic Mahjarrat’s eyes. With this new power that has been bestowed upon them by Mah, Wahisietel felt like he was something more than a mere Mahjarrat. Azzanadra, being their tribe’s strongest, must have been feeling the weight of that burden tenfold.

“ZAROS!” A voice bellowed down to them, shrill yet commanding, cutting Wahisietel from his thoughts. Seren descended from the mountaintop, storming over to challenge Zaros. “You knew this would happen from the start. Your actions resulted in the death of our own mother. How could you?”

Zaros did not come close to matching the palpable emotion in Seren’s tone when he replied, “She is truly gone? Then we did her a kindness, Seren. Her entire existence was pain.”

“Her existence was beautiful,” Seren’s voice wavered, her entire body trembling. “She had the power to create life and she dared to do so, something you will never achieve.”

“Perhaps not, but now I am one step closer.”

“I thought death would have taught you humility, but you are just as arrogant as before…”

“Wait…” Zamorak had just finished dusting off his robes while intently watching the back and forth between the two other deities. All the while, his brow kept furrowed, the cogs in his head starting to turn and pull him towards a dangerous realisation. “If Mah is dead, then why do I still feel that aura? That… pull.”

He turned towards Bilrach as if seeking confirmation. He received it in the form of a shallow, grave nod of his head. Ever so slowly, he turned his head back to Seren with a glare as fiery as the lava falls around them. “You… you cunt! It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? Seren, goddess of the elves. You came to us posing as Mah all those years ago. You taught the fucking Rituals to us. You made us believe they were the fucking will of a fucking Elder God!”

Zamorak’s barely contained rage snapped the other Mahjarrat into silence; they could practically see the ferocious anger pour out of his skin and the venom drip from his tongue. It was a terrifying intensity that would not easily be forgotten.

“No- I... I was trying to help,” Seren held up her hands, a gentle motion. “I could not foresee what would become of your race. How could I?”

But Zamorak was having none of it. Sweeping a dramatic hand towards Seren, Zamorak announced, “Mahjarrat, this is Seren, your false Mah. Bilrach will confirm, SHE is the one who came to your ancestors and taught them to murder one another. SHE ALONE bears the responsibility for what our race has become!”

“Please!” Seren’s voice cracked. “I never meant to-”

“Millennia of anguish and suffering for our race is on HER hands!” Zamorak roared, practically shaking with fury.

At this, Zaros stepped in, “Leave her.”

An interruption not welcomed by Seren. “Do not defend me, Zaros,” she snapped. “You will never stand beside me again.”

Wahisietel was still having a hard time letting all of this sink in. “Surely it cannot be. Our greatest tradition was never anything but a facade?”

“Mmm, yes, it is true,” Bilrach solemnly confirmed. “I remember the visit, somewhere in my mind. Aeons ago, it was. You looked somehow different, Seren, but you are not Mah. You are a pretender.”

“It was all lies?” Hazeel clenched a fist so tight that his claws began to draw blood from his palm. “Our race has dwindled to such a paltry number for nothing…”

“It was not for nothing!” Seren desperately defended, heart in her throat. “If you had not performed the Rituals to give energy back to Mah she would have torn this planet apart. Your whole race would have been annihilated!”

There was a fury in Azzanadra’s narrow eyes that rivalled Zamorak’s own. “And sacrificing our own kin was the best you could think of? With all the power and wisdom you have been gifted… THAT WAS THE BEST YOU COULD DO?!”

“I was naive, yes. I have made many mistakes. I bear the guilt of my actions every waking moment,” Seren quivered, trembling under the weight of the Mahjarrat’s judgement.

“You may bear the guilt, but not the consequences,” Enakhra snarled. “We sacrificed our children for you. Our kin! Look what you have done to our glorious race! Look at what is left of us!”

“You taught us to kill one another. Made us rely on it. You led us to the very brink of extinction!” Wahisietel growled, eyes blazing with fire. The sacrifices they had endured… all for nothing...

Seren took an involuntary step backwards. Her face was a portrait of sorrow, of unbridled guilt and shame in the face of their anger. “Please, I am sorry… so, so sorry…”

“You do not get to be sorry,” Zamorak rounded back on Seren. “You are the cause of so much loss, so much motherfucking misery… you cursed our race and then you cursed the elves! You’re a monster!”

It was too much for Seren to bear; all the sadness and guilt she felt inside overflowed and manifested into a vicious, ear-splitting, ground-shaking scream. The surrounding Mahjarrat dropped to their knees, clutching desperately onto their ears in a weak attempt to block out the worst of the sound, crying out in anguish as they did so.

Even Zaros was affected, hunching over and trying to cast a small protection spell to lessen the impact of his sister’s scream. “Seren, stop, please!”

But Seren didn’t listen; the ground began to split apart, rocks from cliffs above started to crumble and crash down around them.

“Sister, you will destroy them all!” Zaros pleaded, thankfully loud enough to get through to Seren. The screaming stopped, as did the shaking ground, and the Mahjarrat began to make their way to their feet.

Seren stumbled backwards, looking down at her trembling hands. She couldn’t look up again, couldn’t look at the Mahjarrat she continued to hurt. “I... I cannot stay here any longer. But it is not over between us, Zaros. Not this easily. You will pay for what you have done here. Mah's death is on your hands, and while I still draw breath, I will stand against you.”

With that, she flew away.

Wahisietel was feeling numb, his life on Freneskae flashing before him. All the unnecessary deaths, all the pain he endured in Rituals… the whims of a naive god, nothing more. “How could she do this to us…”

“My sister did what she thought necessary,” Zaros explained, his monotonous voice betraying no allegiance or emotion. “You must understand, Seren has always been caring to a fault; blind to the fact she smothers the subjects of her affection. Her heart ached for Mah, watching her pour what little energy she held into the creation of new beings - the Dreams of Mah. To sustain Mah - to save her from death - Seren taught those creations to transfer their energy back to her in small doses. It was the only way for Frenesake to survive.”

“Pah! 'These creations',” Zamorak spat. “We were born the same way as you were, Zaros. Our lives did not matter less. Seren came to us, posing as Mah. She created the drain on our energy, made it necessary to either kill one another or die out. Think of the Mahserrat,” he looked towards Hazeel, a former Mahserrat himself. “They chose to deny the Rituals, and then they all perished. If it weren’t for Seren, that never would have fucking happened.”

“She was only doing what she believed was the right course of action,” Zaros repeated.

Zamorak bared his teeth. “Do not argue for her, Zaros. You have made an enemy of her now.”

“Then let us dwell on her no longer. There is something far more relevant. I have kept my word, Zamorak. When Sliske holds his endgame, you will be my Legatus Maximus once more.”

“Do not taunt me, Empty Lord. I owe you no fealty.”

“We shall see.”

Ignoring the remark, Zamorak turned back to the Mahjarrat, lifted his chin and declared, “You are free now, Mahjarrat. Time is on your side - there is no Ritual looming ahead, no pressure to avoid sacrifice. Make the most of your immortality.”

“Just remember, it was I who gave you this freedom,” Zaros pointed out, stepping forward to address the crowd. “Under my guidance you have all shattered your limitations. It is… inspiring. But remember, Zamorak, I made good on my promise. For now, you belong to me.”

“But you should also remember, I owe you a single action,” Zamorak countered. “Choose it wisely.

“Believe me, I will. But for now, there are other matters that require my attention. I will see you at the eclipse.”

With those words, Zaros took to the skies and flew away, leaving the Mahjarrat alone once more.

In the silence, Akthanakos was the first to speak. “Just because our gods have a truce, doesn’t mean I’m willing to bury the hatchet with all of you,” he glared at Enakhra. “I do not put my trust in snakes.”

Enakhra scoffed. “Don’t get caught up in the moment. I have no need for Zarosians in my life.”

Azzanadra declared, “You brought down the Empire, Zamorak. I will never forgive you. But… Zaros needs you. I will not jeopardize my lord’s plan.”

“Unless our gods are at war, we have no reason to fight,” Wahisietel argued, stepping between the heated glares of Azzanadra and Zamorak. He looked Zamorak in the eye, feeling bile form in his throat as he bitterly remembered that fateful day in the Throne Room.

But he swallowed it down.

“Indeed,” Zamorak replied, a cruel smile dancing on his lips as he saw the flickers of fury dance across Wahisietel’s features. But for once, he decided to be above baiting, above taunting. This day was too important, after all. “After Sliske’s game, all bets are off. But for now, let’s keep things civil.”

Khazard, who had remained silent throughout all of this, finally raised his voice, a simple question on his mind, “F-Father… why wait until now to tell me?”

Hearing his voice made Zamorak soften slightly. He turned away from the anger of the Zarosians and around to his son. Shrugging, he replied, “I thought he was going to kill us all. Figured it was as good a time as any. You and I should talk, Khazard, and we should all leave this wretched place once and for all.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[alloveroliver]

“Withering Albatross”

Amon x MC

SFW Horror Genre

Notes: This is NOT fluff nor smut. 

TW: brief mention of needles

Halloween Themed- Prompt List    WC: 1,556

74“You don’t feel it yet, but you will soon.”

Ikemen Revolution Fanfic

Water splashed over the side of the tub as I plopped down into the bubbly concoction, unconcerned for the slippery consequences ahead. I sank down under the tower of bubbles, keeping my nose just above the waterline. I made sure my shoulders where being soaked in the heat since that’s where I was holding my tension.

The guys had been nice to me since I arrived at their headquarters. Yet, I still felt a sense of uneasiness as the evening went on. Once the time came for me to sleep, the silence of being alone caused the pit in my stomach to grow.

I rubbed my arm under the shield of bubbles, coaxing my muscles to finally relax, to no avail. Flipping abruptly to my right, the water sloshed around me in waves. I allowed the right side of my hair to dip down further, watching it swirl around in the liquid ether.

Going out of their way for someone they just met, throwing a party and preparing a room for my stay, gave me a sense of easiness. Despite my worries a small hope sprang up inside of me. They seem to take me on as their own so quickly, calming me marginally. Maybe I actually could make it here for a month.

Outside the comfort of the warm bath, I darted across the cool bedroom in freshly laundered sleepwear, to my new bed for the next moon cycle. Slipping under the covers in the dark, I pulled them up to my chin. I followed the patterns on the ceiling now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark. However, my rapidly cooling body temperature seemed rip through the veil of comfort I painted for myself.

My chest was heavy as a suffocating weight bore down onto me, keeping me from moving. My mind misfired over and over as I tried to process all the new information I gained. Even with their comforting words and promises, I was in no shape to relax with the information I was ‘safe’.

Sleep evaded me for hours, I worried for the life I was ripped from when I fell into that damn rabbit hole. What would happen to my home, and my job? Would anyone even be looking for me if I was missing for that long?

Tiny insecurities became huge rips in my psyche the longer I lay in the foreign bed. The soft sheets felt like a trap, coaxing me into a sleep that I wasn’t sure I could benefit from. My head felt like a rock, growing heavier the more the clock on the wall ticked away.

After many long hours of staring up at the alien ceiling, sleep yanked me down into its bothersome embrace. My mind dipped into the inky ocean of dreams, yet my body kept a keen sense of my surroundings in the present room.

Visions of flipping and twisting nauseated me. The walls of the small cylinder I fell through, wiped past me at neck breaking speeds. Another long sigh fell off my lips as the walls twisted and turned, aggravating me.  The tunnel stretched on for days while I continuously plummeted. As soon as the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew accustomed to the falling sensation, it would start back up in my throat again bringing an unbridled panic to the forefront of my mind once more.

I tried to find the comfort in the discomfort to no avail. I crossed my arms only spinning faster, then tired pulling my knees to my chest, yet every position was just as repugnant as the next.  My vision flickers when an icy sensation crept over my head. I clenched my eyes, but through the dream I became painfully aware of a sickening sting wash over the back of my neck.

I woke up with a start, bolting upright in bed just to be held down by solid hands. My eyes craned around the room in hopes to make sense of my interrupted sleep. As my pupils dilated, two figures boring over me came into view. One man held my torso down with one large hand while the other continued to prod my neck.

“AH!” I yelled, thrashing my legs wildly into the nondescript figure.

His other hand flew up to my mouth, pushing hard enough for my teeth to cut the inside of my lip. The icy feeling on my neck began to centralize into a sharp pain I could pinpoint.

“Is that all of it, Amon?” the shadowed figure over me spoke in a hushed tone.

I jerked my body again in defiance.

“Pretty much.” The other cloaked man spoke in a huskier voice.

“HM!?” I voiced under the solid hand.

“You don’t feel it yet, but you will soon.” Amon pulled away from my neck, bringing a small syringe into view.

The icy pain began to spread down my back, racing through my veins towards my extremities. What was this he injected me with? Who were these two men and how did they get in here?

My thoughts slowed as a darkness deeper than sleep encased me, numbing my body before finally my taking away my sight.

My eyes tried to part, yet they were sticking together as if I had been asleep for days. I managed to wiggle my fingers rousing my body from its forced coma. My back hummed with numbness from the lack of circulation.

Weakly, I brought my hand up to my face, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Then, running my fingers over my chapped lips, I felt the razor sharp ridges prod the tip. I moved my tongue to lap at them, realizing it felt as if I had swallowed cotton. My dry throat began to flex at just the mere thought of water.

I moved my neck to the side, feeling it pop when I managed to do so. Another unfamiliar room came into focus. I noted the damp stone walls, rusted iron bars and a hay covered floor. I was in the far corner, laying on the solid floor shrouded in a dark shadow thanks to the lack of windows in the frigid cell.

What did I do wrong to be brought here? Panic surged through me, yet my muscles were too weak to react. My arm plopped back down to my side as a rushing headache began pulsing in my skull. My temples throbbed but I did nothing to try to soothe myself. I was here, by shear bad luck but somehow it felt like I deserved it.

I sat unmoving for hours, leaving me with only toxic thoughts. I wanted to pinch myself, to snap myself out of it and say ‘Hey, the black army promised to protect you. They may be coming for you right now’

I tried to scoff at my own words, yet my mouth stuck together miserably. I knew I should be hungry, yet it seemed as if my body was too weak to even register that basic need.

I don’t know how much time passed or when I fell asleep again, but a loud crash roused me from my dreamless state. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird desperately trying to keep up with my minuscule movements.

“HELLO!?” a deep voice shouted into the cell block.

My eyes shot open feeling that small spark of hope again ignite within me. I tried to clear my throat to speak. I’m sure it would sound like a croak, but any noise I could make would help them find me.

I parted my lips, cracking them further. “...” Panic rushed over me when no sound came out.

My throat was too parched and my body was too weak.

“I check the other blocks, they were empty.” another voice echoed off the walls.

I sucked in a shallow breath. “...h..”

‘FUCK!’ I yelled in my head ‘IM IN HERE’ I began screaming in my own mind.

My dry eyes stung as I stared through the bars, watching the tall figure walk by. They glance into my cell, but didn’t spot me laying in the dark corner. I visualized myself jumping to my feet and rushing over to him as I banged on the bars, but my body wouldn’t respond to my attempts.

So feeble and powerless, my legs trembled at the thought of holding my weight.

‘No! Please don’t leave me here!’ I screamed in my head over and over.

Tears never fell from my eyes, yet in my state of dehydration I wasn’t surprised. The figure passed my cell and turned back the way they came. I couldn’t even ball up my fist in frustration.

I tried calling out again. “....” and again “....”

My chest heaved as a sob broke over me, my mind was shattering as I screamed to myself.

“This one’s empty too.” The deep voice reported to the other.

‘No! It’s not empty!’ I clamored for my voice for any noise, even a squeak.

The heavy sound of the metal slamming shut jolted my body once more. I stared at the bars in disbelief. They had come for me, but it was too late.

They were too late.

.

.

.

I’ve never written anything like this... but I wanted to do something dark and spooky for Halloween. SO! with that being said, I hope you enjoyed. 

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

I Think, Therefore You Aren’t

 Halloween ,it’s Halloween! 

Happy halloween @mslead, it was me all along! You are like one of my fave fanfic writers and i was so psyched when I found out i’d be writing a story for you!

I tried to make it nice and creepy to keep with the season and I hope you enjoy it lots!

Word count- 2,891

She thinks she sees it out the corner of her eye, the soft glow of eyes in the darkest corners, always following her curiously. The gnash of teeth too sharp and too white in what could’ve been a smile or a snarl.

She could never quite tell.

Sometimes she hears. A growl or 2 when friends stay the night or a whispered ‘hello’ and a weak chuckle so faint it might’ve been just a trick of her mind.

 But most importantly, she feels.

Splotches of warmth that tingle up her arms and feather across her cheeks feel almost like fingers ghosting cautiously over her skin. And when the sun begins to rise or in the wee hours on the tethers of night and day, her mattress dips this way and that in no way that’s possibly natural.

She thinks there’s something here with her but she know better. The apartment is hers and hers alone, this she knows. But sometimes she thinks otherwise, outside what she knows.

So that’s why once, just this once, Lucy tries to see what isn’t there. 

It’s past midnight she knows, wrapped up under her covers and watching the seconds trickle by through the glow of the clock on her nightstand. Her eyes are tired, slipping to a close every now and then but she forces them back open, waiting. Listening.

Creak......

Creak......

Creak..............

“Hello?” Lucy tries, feeling rather silly. “Is there anyone there?” She shifts slightly to peer over the blanket. To the foot of her bed is bathed in pale moonlight and beyond’s swallowed up by the dark night. 

It was quiet like the night’s supposed to be but the air felt, off, charged with static and tense like her heart thundering in her chest. It’s there.

Her skin prickled as she squinted, gaze quickly jumping between the room’s dark corners suspiciously. It must’ve been the building settling in the night’s chill, letting off long winded groans as the day’s heat left it in waves.That’s what she hoped, what Lucy wanted to believe so she could simply roll over and fall into the first restful sleep she’s had in a while. All Lucy’s gotten these past few weeks were fitful rests, always cut short by the eyes that followed her, piercing through her dreams and leaving her in cold sweat ‘til the sun poked its rays through the window.

CreEEeeeaAaaaAAk.........

There it was again, longer and heavier like someone finally putting their foot down in one decisive step. Lucy’s eyes narrowed glaring at the corner furthest from her, absolutely sure that’s where it came. She could feel the seconds barely tick by,oozing like sludge as her fingers curled in the sheets.

“I know you’re there.” Lucy whispers irritably, pulling her covers in one swift motion over her head. “I’m not crazy.” She mumbled.

She may have shielded herself beneath the covers, but Lucy didn’t call for sleep. Her eyes begged her for the sweet relief yet they remained defiantly open, watching the slight rise and fall of the sheet from her shallow breaths.

Her fingers tapped softly on her upper thigh, growing more irritable with each passing minute. It wouldn’t come out now, not after such a brazen outburst. Whatever ‘it’ was, was either shy or an ass and would wait until she fell into a deep enough slumber before it made another move, poking its head uninvited in her dreams.

Lucy blew out a frustrated breath, turning on her side and rubbed her cold feet together. She hissed at their numbness, curling tighter into a ball. Maybe tonight wasn’t the night.

Maybe tonight was just gonna be like yesterday- long and leaving her breathless- and not in the happy ending sort of way. 

She’s done her research, set traps for Polaroid photos and done almost whatever else a tormented person might do to prove they’re not crazy. What little evidence she’d garnered- if it could even be called that- was barely anything to ease her mind. There was always something else that could maybe explain it,  her dog, the faucet, the window she always left cracked for that sweet bit of night air.

But she could still feel the presence, cold and unusual and yet somehow burning hot whipping round her, almost taunting. It had her at her wits end being terrified all the time. Lucy didn’t think the bags under her eyes could get bigger and yet they did each and every day.

She bit back a yawn rising in the back of her throat. The sleep beckoned her, a tempting mistress that promised her a good time if only she’d just let her worries go and sink into the softness, to let the black wave wash over her. Her eyelids drooped, the clock on her nightstand whispered softly nearby. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.  Maybe now she could-

Ccc-CCRReeeAAK........

Her eyes snapped back open to narrow to slits as she glared at the sheet,hearing it take another decisive step towards the bed. Guess she’ll lie with the mistress later. Her heart might be pounding and her nerves firing off all at once but she was, for the lack of a better word, pissed, and this thing is gonna get what’s coming to it. She’ll think about the consequences later.

So she lies in wait, it advancing for her. The steps were heavy and slow, as if it thought carefully about where to walk next. The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath its weight and her brows furrowed in concentration, listening keenly. Every now and then there was a heavy thump between steps,followed by the slither, the dry ‘shhhh’ of ........something dragging behind it.

It made a rhythm- creak, thump, shhh, creak, thump, shhh- that made her take a sharp breath through her nose as it came to a stop by her right. She almost lost it when she feels a chill cautiously grasp her upper arm through the sheet but kept the shriek inside, coming out as a weak snort as the chill slid to circle her wrist. The bed dipped, old springs screeching at the newcomer. Almost like her thoughts going wild, banging around inside her head trying to get out in an actual screech.

But she kept them inside, her breaths coming quicker and making the covers flutter away from her forehead. The chill around her wrist grew warm then gradually hot, almost unbearably so in mere seconds. A sharpness pricked her knuckle- tapping once, then twice, then a third driving through the sheet to pierce her skin.

Lucy bit her lip as she felt the blood well up from the broken skin, sticking the sheet to her knuckle. It knew she was awake.

Lucy flexed her fingers beneath its grip and it let go, allowing her to rise in a sitting position. Still, she had the sheet over her face, not quite ready to face it yet even with its eyes staring at her through the veil. They glowed, a soft shimmer in the dark that held her gaze steady and unblinking, waiting expectantly for her. 

Suddenly a wave of annoyance shoots through her. This, this thing torments her, stabs her and now has the gall to act as though it was in charge? Screw this thing. Lucy was doing this on her own terms. She ripped the sheet from her face, the fabric pooling at her waist as she fixes it with a withering glare like it was a naughty pet instead of a creature outside of normalcy.

“You.” Lucy said, the word dripping with poison.

The creature blinks, its eyes shifting from green to red then back when it blinks again. It looked more human than she figured it would, tearing her gaze from the mesmerizing colours to finally get a good look. 

If she didn’t focus then it looked almost like a man by the foot of her bed, around her age and sitting just beyond the touch of moonlight though she could still make out its marred brown skin with silvery white scars criss-crossing all over. Almost though isn’t enough. It blinks red as Lucy’s eyes roam, focusing on everything all at once.

Horns spiraled from its head, curling to wicked points above unruly hair- pink and unnaturally bright in the dark as it tilted its head, eyeing her curiously. It pondered her word then grins, lips pulling back over dark gums and bright teeth. A mouth full of canines were bared at her in what seemed more like a snarl than anything else.

“It’s me.” It says playfully, stabbing its fingers in the mattress. They were pulled out with soft pops and Lucy realized what pierced her. Claws, curved and blunt on few fingers with most coming to straight, deadly points. They almost distracted her from the scarlet scales trailing up its arms, blending smoothly with skin like intricate tattoos that gleamed dully. It scratched at its elbow, a grating sound as nails ran evenly over thick scales.

Lucy curls her legs closer to her, a lump forming in her throat under its weighty stare. “ What are you?” A thump made Lucy jump back on her bedpost when the creature slides closer to her, heavy tail rising off the floor to curl near her toes. Spiny ridges scratched her soles, the creature’s grin widens.

“I’m something.” It purred. 

“Do you have a name?” Lucy retorted, fear receding for a moment at its curt answer.

“No.”

“Are you real?” Lucy asks, carefully picking her words. “Do you think I am?” It shoots back, clearly enjoying the back and forth questions as mirth grew in its shifting eyes. The tail crawls to rest on her calf. A heavy presence that made her hold her lips in a thin line before she answered.

“I’m not sure.” Lucy said truthfully. 

It clucked its tongue in disappointment and its tail retreated, curling behind its back and it frowned. “Then I won’t answer.” Oh so it wanted to be cryptic, huh? Not answer her questions? Fine, whatever. Lucy’s lip curled in a sneer as she leaned forward to rest her chin on her knuckle.

“Don’t be like that.” It admonished, frown deepening. 

And now it was gonna reprimand her. Great, at least now the sleep deprivation was working with her since her annoyance kept growing by the second.

“I don’t care.” She snapped, rocking forward a bit on her knuckle. Her sneer disappeared with a snarl of her own. “I don’t care.” Lucy repeats harshly. “I just want to sleep without you sticking you something head in my dreams. I don’t care who or what you are, or why for that matter, but I just want to sleep. Can you do that for me?”

It looks at her, eyes wide with surprise for a moment then narrowed to weak slits in amusement. It too leans forward mirroring her pose- chin on knuckle- to where she’s staring straight into its eyes. Their noses brush and It exhales a weak puff at her, a grey mist that swirled and fanned her cheeks with warmth. She almost reels back at the scent that overcomes her, wood smoke and cloves. Her thoughts cloud over and she rapidly blinks away the fog to try to clear her head.

Suddenly it straightens, amusement gone and its features blank- eyes going empty and hard. Lucy doesn’t move but she watches it warily, free hand tightening into a ball on her lap.

The creature stays rigid by her feet, tail wriggling slightly. Mechanically - and hauntingly innocent- its head tilts to fix her with rounded eyes, flashing neither red nor green, but gold for the briefest of moments.

“So how else am I supposed to feed?” It murmured. The question hung hollow and empty, reverberating around the room and ringing in Lucy’s ears. 

Feed....? What does it mean by.....?

The pieces strung themselves together- feed, her dreams, its eyes- and Lucy almost flies to her feet, hands drawn to her chest while her face contorted into a mask. Too many emotions were trying to force their way up and be seen but the fear in her eyes and the disgusted curl of her lip were enough.

“You’ve been feeding....off my dreams.” Lucy stated pointedly, more to herself as though saying the fact out loud would make it more plausible.

The creature still hadn’t moved, remaining stock still with not even the slightest rise of its chest. Her legs tangled in the sheets, pulling to her chest as well. 

Wait, did it breathe? She hadn’t noticed if it did.

“Well?” Lucy demanded, voice shaky and strained. “At least say something!” 

The creature blinked green, head cocking stiffly to the other side. Its neck cracked loudly at the motion and Lucy winced, feeling her own neck twinge in response.

Then she heard it, soft at first then growing in timbre,shaking her bones. It was laughing. Scratchy and dry from the back of its throat that pulled its lips back over teeth again. She couldn’t describe it properly, maybe like the hiss of steam escaping a broken kettle with a sharp whistle every other wheeze. It rattled and shook the creature as it rose to full height above her, tail falling to the floor with a heavy thud by its feet.

Cold rolled off it in waves by her side, laughter dying down to but a simple curl at the corners of its lips.

“So you want to make a deal then?” There was a coyness to its words, masking something else. It extended a hand, moonlight turning claws silver as it leveled with her face. Lucy felt compelled to take it, hand twitching in her lap but let it rest there.

“What are the terms?” “Acceptable.” It said simply, wiggling its fingers slightly.

She rose her hand, stopping just short of dropping it in the creature’s. She searched its eyes for something, anything, that would set off the alarms in her head but she couldn’t find it. Just a haunting gaze watching her expectantly like it already knew her answer.

“ Will you really leave me to rest?” Her hand hovered inches above, the chill warming slightly. It said nothing, smile only widening.

“As long as you want.”

Lucy gulped, her throat dry as she came to an answer. With a sharp inhale she dropped her hand, feeling the clawed fingers wrap around her securely. A claw ran over the cut on her knuckle, aggravating the broken skin once more. The creature watched as the blood beaded, coating it scarlet with rapt attention, a gleam in the creature’s eye.

The contact was short, Lucy’s hand hovered in the air falling slowly back to her lap while it stepped back. The floor didn’t creak. 

It slunk further away into the shadows not breaking eye contact and brought its finger, the one smeared with her blood, to its lips. Eyes and teeth were all she could see as the darkness swallowed up the creature in the corner it came from.

Lucy swore she saw its tongue dart out, wiping the red clean from its claw. The smirk faded away when its tongue darted out again, swiping along its lower lip.

It blinked once red. Then green. Then red again, gold flecks burning from their center. Something is whispered at Lucy but she can’t hear. It only reaches her as a low rush of breath. The creature’s eyes close and melts into the corner without a sound

She’s alone again in her room, like the encounter never even happened.

Suddenly she feels weak, fatigue washing over her like she hadn’t slept in years, eyes burning and begging for her to close them and she couldn’t find the strength like before to keep them open.

Dropping back on the pillow, not even bothering to pull at her covers, a spine tingling yawn left her. She still focused on the corner, waiting for it to peer back at her once more but there was nothing.

No emeralds or rubies blinked back at her. No creaks or thuds. Nothing.

Had it really all just happened in her head?

Warmth swirled from the corner, bringing with it the scent of cloves and wood smoke. Spicy and intoxicating pulling her eyes to a close.

It wrapped around her as Lucy turned on her side, eyelids finally snapping shut. 

The clock on her night stand went by slowly- tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock- then halted to a stop. With effort she cracked an eye just in time to see the hands fall useless inside its face. 

Lucy turned over, wincing slightly at her knuckle when the tiredness washed over her, stronger this time and her vision blurred. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’ll replace the batteries. Lucy closed her eye with a soft sigh, allowing for the sleep to take her at last. Cloves and wood smoke filled her nose.

It’s fuzzy and slow, crawling at her from the corners of her mind as gold seeped through.It wrapped her and kept her still, holding her to the mattress. Lucy’s breaths came out weak, barely causing her chest to rise.

Gold flared in the corner and flooded her mind and she stiffened for a moment, breath in her nose.  

With a final exhale,Lucy slips off peacefully. The gold bled away and the floors gave its last creak. 

The decisive step of something turning away.

[ketlerblog]

La muerte de letargo

(5) I’ve become so unfamiliar with myself.

(8) We need a philosophy for painting, music, photography, cinema, etc. — new and timeless — so we don’t go naming everything art. That a human has intrinsic dignity is difficult to understand, but obviously true (to healthy people). This was the case with art too. Art is now without dignity, because its makers are without dignity. They, like the art, aren’t valued spiritually, because they allegedly weren’t made. So either we define art as numinous creations of humans in the likeness of God, or as creations of humans in the likeness of confused indifference. The philosophies of painting, photography, music, cinema, etc. can justly define their focus as “art” if humans are art (created). The standard is high.

(10) I feel like I understood art best as a kid. All art was mysterious, and gave a numinous impression I only could have received in ignorance. Nothing is mysterious anymore. All my questions have been answered, and I’m worried most of them are wrong.

(11) To try is to persist in futility. There are only the acts of doing/accomplishing, and not doing/being unable.

To do is to commit to something. Before any act, choose whether or not you’ll commit.

To try is to commit to loss.

(12) At some moments, you are able to realize the significance of what you experience better than other moments. When you become passive, hearken back to those touchstone moments. Every passing moment is as supremely significant as the last. Every passive moment is etched into the psyche in some way (creating habits, etc). Be aware of it, and you might control it.

(14) Why do I always have to fight against what I did not want to learn? Teach me how to be curious again, and how to commit to this curiosity! To commit to anything! Teach me how to experience again—to be full again—not left wanting! Help me in my desire to understand, and not to dismiss life with a laugh and a beer. Help me to smile with pleasant surprise, not habit. Allow me to cry. Allow me to reassess. I no longer know what it means to be naive, and my nostalgia makes naivety so very attractive.

The starry night makes me remember mystery: that understanding does not negate mystery in this universe, that a function is not a teleology. I wonder if you hear me, peers. Relearn. Look back; there are things more beautiful than this.

(15) Let a habit be a ritual, and, in so being, let it be deliberate. Let it be something you’ve knowingly committed to.

(16) So my life has been mostly void of anything substantial for the past few years. I have enjoyed sin. I have allowed myself to wane in depression. I had made life-altering mistakes. I had utterly lost my identity. There wasn’t a beacon to journey towards, only ghosts that equally lost people pointed towards in desperation. I’ve found the beacon now. It’s no ghost—it overshadows the ominous waves. It’s called the Church, laden with more history than one would ever wish to experience. It’s a collective of the reborn. It’s the handiwork of the Spirit. It’s as if I’ve found what has always been there again; it’s as if I’ve renewed my vows with it, this hospital for the spiritually sick.

(17) The fog reminds us aware of the present (i.e. the immediate) / The fog speaks of the present / The fog speaks to the present moment

(18) I struggle with emotional amnesia. My cherished emotions left through the back door. The ones that I met in my childhood. They left, all together, at once.

(19) I see thousands of different faces at a cursory glance, but few personalities. We are virtually one: a united company of dissatisfaction and loneliness. You can really see it in the eyes. Our individual diversity resides behind drawn curtains, behind closed doors, veiled. Our hearts are in the dark; our souls are deserts. I speak for myself, of course. But this self feels inexplicably tied to a culture it did not choose, and this culture has in its reign thousands of helpless souls. It is a bright, cold blue entity. Its chill is as hot as embers. Its mark is on many of our foreheads.

But I stand in the company of many witnesses: saints upon saints, infilled. Eyes whose scales no longer blind are mine to keep. My heart is in the light: the veil that covered it is duly torn.

(20) What one desires to express needs a proper mode of expression. It is not always to be done through speech. It is seldom to be done in the heat of a moment — more often it should be thought through beforehand (and then done in the moment). The written word is a technology that lifts this limit of expression to another tier. But what if I were to express a feeling outside of the written? If I were to un-semantically investigate a colour, say? A story?

There are perhaps millions of modes. Take the time to chose the correct mode of operation.

(21) Wisdom cannot, by definition, go ‘outdated’. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and lingers, and stays. Very few things go outdated. A few might be rotten milk, withering plants, buildings, our lives, and some other stuff.

Additionally, any newly acquired knowledge came not as an innovation, but as a realization. Physics was physics before Einstein, Isaac Newton, and before Aristotle. Nothing is new under the sun.

Wisdom lingers and stays. Innovation is really a creative act of submission to wisdom, and to revealed knowledge.

(22) What is my generation and its culture? Take away the tenets of faith, and we are left with baselessness.

On an infinite void I can build nothing stable: myself and what I build fall into a pit.

My fellow culture-mate is falling into another infinitely hopeless void. We are more than lost. We are nowhere. We are in the heart of vanity.

(24) I’ve been anticipating this for months now. My life has been in an arresting state of blindness for the last year and a bit. I’ve been consciously and unconsciously trying to find my identity. Simple answers wouldn’t do. What I thought I already knew wasn’t enough. I needed to reevaluate everything, from the ground up. I felt like I was just grazing the surface of life, like a boat unaware of the depth below her.

I’ve dived in. I thrive in these depths, relishing in this baptism.

The next step is into fire and gold.

(25) Permanence breeds soul. Temporality has no time for that — it’s essentially utilitarian.

(26) Unaware of life and why we exist in it, we’ve exchanged the stars for pixels.

(27) The idea of a culture has in many ways been murdered: that invading presence of spirit that has, by both conscious and unconscious effort, been vigorously curated and formed over a virtual eternity. Each person is not their own; each inexplicably belongs to the spirit of a culture, seeing what their culture has allowed them to see, until they’ve learned what they cannot easily unlearn or add to. How difficult it is to adapt to alien cultures! How difficult it is to breathe the air of another culture, and understand the expressions of another landscape.

(28) All my words starve, each of them skin and bones. I have nothing substantial to express with words. Every semantic expression tortures dying words. Please, understand the silence, or hear the music.

(31) I find that I cannot make myself conform to ill-suited societal norms and aspirations, so, in a failed act of rebellion, I’ve done nothing. This is insane. I must live up to the standards I rave about: the highest ones. My heart knows its desires, and they’re too deep and elephantine to be left uncared for. Without action, we die. Our inner and outer selves starve and implode. Faith without works really is dead.

(32) It feels like, after a long time in a cast, my emotions are starting to be free again: to be mobile and fluid. This, only after the cold, stiff boundedness of the cast. These feelings needed restrain.

(33) As a child, especially in adolescence, I was occupied in the experiences I gave myself to. Only those. My understanding, and my modes of thinking; my emotions, and my domains of feeling; were bound. I was too busy in a mold, renovated only by a few immovable aspects of my personality.

In order to grow, you must burst the mold. It was your cast and brace. In order to grow, you must see the mold as a useful metaphor: a form to transcend. In this era of independence that I now enter, I can afford no more casts. I can only move ahead in diligence and rigour.

But if my personality must have a form — if it must be bound — let it be bound by something eternal and true.

And it must.

(34) The spirit of my age, the spheres of influence, and its language has been very, very maimed. It’s far too shallow. It’s dry and cracked. It holds no water, and grows no life.

I’ve thirsted too long to wait any longer; no, the water will not come.

I look all over for fresh and living waters to be baptized in, but where do I go? Under whom? Through what means?

The emotions, ways of thought, presuppositions, and other stiff and stubborn ways of seeing I once unconsciously obeyed can no longer be seen. It’s as if they’ve died, along with an informed memory of them. As myth is, this was. But now, not even myth remains; a cold and tense cognizance remains, longing to be replaced by a new narrative. But until then, there remains only callousness.

(38) The choice between life and death is a choice between carrying the weight I’ve been avoiding, or dying in weakness. And all the drama, ecstasies, and mysticism are in the weight. All the philosophy, poetry, and science are in the weight. There’s even a beautiful death issued by the weight, before physical death. It’s all in the weight of the individual’s responsibility in life. If you find that you can’t discern life’s meaning, don’t worry. It’s more than enough to know that meaninglessness is death. It’s more than enough to know that if one acts as if within a universal drama, they’ll live more truly. Everything stands upon the most sincere, unanswered question: “why”. The answer remains shrouded in mystery, as it should. The answer comes without words, and without pedantic kinds of understanding. It comes in a way that leaves you speechless and in submission. And our humanity struggles with putting words to it; it finds it impossible to stay adherent to its purity. Certain things have been elaborated, and shown to be perennial: this is the grace of tradition. But always the words are less than the substance of the weight we carry. It’s the weight of meaning. It’s the weight of the Father, and we are the Sons.

(39) I follow you, like a younger brother. I feel equal to you; I almost understand you. You don’t know it, but you direct my steps. Every footstep you take is sacred. I might build temples where you’ve walked, if you’d stop moving.

And right when I catch up to you, you disappear: a secular saint. You never stopped to meet me.

(40) For everyone, but specifically for my fellow boys:

It feels unavoidable. Growth has consequences. Growth breeds as many mishaps as it does milestones. Growth demands new responsibilities for which we will definitely fail, in order to then triumph. Growth, with excruciating slowness, plows at the soil of our hearts, so that life might freely blossom. The growth which is free, loving, and beautiful, follows first from something painful.

The yearning of the flower as it reaches for the sun’s sustenance is like the babe who seeks only for the care of his father and mother. But then, as if a surprise, follows the fully grown boy, who is confronted with an idea of manhood which is vague and overwhelming. His growth, as he enters adulthood, is no longer as gravitational as the baby’s. His aim is no longer his father; it should become like that of the flower, aiming at the heavens.

He needs firstly a forest fire. He needs trimming. And he is aware of it from within: his gaze at that light which gave warmth and comfort is obscured by light which gives pain and cleanliness. What he doesn’t realize is that they’re both fire: the sun as much as the flames. But this closeness to the light he’s always aimed at, which are now flames for which he laments and questions, is not as reassuring as it once was.

But from the chars and ashes of these flames comes a season of renewed strengths and aspirations. The boy shifts his gaze from his parents onto higher, more universal aims. He becomes a man not because he has become “independent,” and in so doing, aimed at himself, like a mirror pointing at another. From that comes an infinitely repetitive, and ultimately aimless journey towards nothing but dizzying dimness. No, the boy must shift his gaze away from himself. The boy has become a man after his gaze is fixed on ultimate things, and of serving others. After every season will come the forest fire. The more it comes, the more reassured we can be of its utility. For the boy it is an unhappy surprise.

(42) There is no real exchange between speaking and listening - one is always doing both, and should not try to separate the two.

(43) It is nothing other than a monstrous joke that before drowning in the hollow woes of depression, I had consciously lived in the emotional world of an ignorant life. It is something I cannot laugh at, in spite of all its intrinsic contradiction. There is little emotion in the depressive life. In its bind there are only very timid sparks of emotional light.

I am not certain that “depression” is even a term that satisfactorily describes the phenomenon it tries to define. Depression represents, it seems to me, a deeper state of consciousness which can only be elaborated in spiritual language. Scientists and psychologists may try to monopolize the descriptive market by proclaiming that depression is most accurately represented by chemicals and behaviours. Poets and novelists may try to express the state semantically, bending words into shapes that may cause more confusion than clarity. Philosophers and theologians may express the state in relation to ontic, epistemic, or even ethical language, but by doing so, do not grasp the subjective reality depression lords over. We can discuss depression, and conscious states generally, only ever in spiritual terms, if we are to truly wrestle it skin to skin. Spirituality grounds the language which specific fields look at from a necessarily non-wholistic viewpoint.

(44) The meaning of life will seem like a hopelessly deep question until you realize it’s the most primal, obvious thing. It’s not something you think about as an object, except for clarification after-the-fact. It is the flowering phenomenon that occurs when life is lived, honestly and sincerely. It comes when you allow it to, as vision comes when you open your eyes.

(46) Don’t go at it alone.