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Post by Deleted on Sept 22, 2017 11:39:23 GMT -5
Do not edit your writing except for grammar/spelling mistakes.
Just write about whatever is on your mind.
xx
Don't hide, please.
I promise, I'm still here inside. It's me! Don't forget about me. Please. I don't care what I look like anymore. I know it is horrible. But please, don't run away.
No, no, I'm not lying !!
Please come back.
I'm here, I promise. My arms are open. I will comfort you. I will protect you.
Just don't run away.
xx
No, no, you're lying.
You're not him.
Please, you scare me. Please, don't hurt me.
stop lying !!
xx
no no
Please come back.
Just come back.
Look, I have it. The jewel. You see?
It is me.
We can be together forever like you wanted to.
I am him. You are her.
I love you.
xx
You do have the jewel.
You are him.
We can be together like I wanted to.
I am her. You are him.
I love you, too.
xx
Why are you so trusting?
How amusing.
Darling, learn to be cautious.
xx
I thought you were him.
Written 9/22/17
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Post by Redfleck on Sept 23, 2017 8:17:45 GMT -5
I created a thread just like this one, though it's just been deleted. Not that I'm angry you made one, or anything. Hopefully this thread ends up being more successful. I hope it will be. After all, more than one person has posted in this.
Is that how forum threads work? Mob mentality, decisions by the masses? It's how so much social media works these days. Once one person likes a post, everyone else just likes along. It's not the same with downvoting though; only for upvoting things. I wonder why.
Human nature is just like this. We rely on other people and follow the crowd, never thinking for ourselves. I include myself in this because I'm also a victim to conformity. Why should we follow societal expectations when they are arbitrary, confining, and nonsensical? I question them and I despise them, yet I follow along anyways because it's expected.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 24, 2017 16:56:05 GMT -5
Our perception of sight, hearing, touch is altered constantly by the opinions of others, whether positively or negatively. This is a confusing dynamic, and there is no one way it can be opposed; because whether we like it or not, all the time we are subconsciously influenced by other people—writings, speeches, musings, objects, individual perceptions that can be recognized as having more brilliance than one's original state of mind. And like that, our viewpoint is changed. Redfleck so brilliant omg, your writing has so much sensibility and flow, it's so nice and soothing to read and it's not pretentious like what I just wrote. goals |
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Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2017 12:17:49 GMT -5
y'all showing me up with this deep writing
@burglar Redfleck ;; Both very flowing and thought provoking. ^^
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Post by Redfleck on Sept 25, 2017 20:31:35 GMT -5
(I feel so flattered 0_0)
I spend so much of my time thinking. And I find that these "stream of consciousness" things aren't really good representations of my thoughts.
For some people, typing out their thoughts becomes therapeutic and helps them turn their thoughts into coherent plans and ideas.... But for me, my head is a noisy expanse of thought and static noise that somehow mean things; putting static noise and scribbley lines into words isn't accurate, not even considering the rate at which my mind moves. (It moves very quickly; I'm always jumping from one thing to another to another to another until I end up somewhere strange and weird and sometimes dark but I've been comfortable enough with that and some people find that disturbing. I think it's just a consequence of....well, a consequence of just who I am.)
Actually, have you noticed that thoughts can literally be noisy? You see those edgy "My thoughts keep me awake at night," or whatever that are supposed to be depressing. When I come out of deep thought, my hearing opens, my vision focuses, as if I were waking from a dream.
....maybe it is just me. But I'm not alone, am I?
Did I just turn a thread into a diary?
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Sept 26, 2017 0:54:05 GMT -5
Do the crazy wonder if they're losing it, or are they blissfully ignorant of their own abnormal behavior? Maybe the questioning of their sanity and simply not knowing the answer is what makes them crazy.
Does the mad woman lie awake at night, tossing and turning, wondering, god, has she finally snapped? Does she ball her hands into fists and slowly rip the sheets off her bed? Does she dream off peeling her ears off her head?
Does that mad woman want to give up their lives? Or is that too unnatural; are the sociopaths aware of what they're desperate to do? Is it the realization that makes them so terrifying? They know they're mad, and they embrace it.
Does that mad woman hear things the others don't? Is her mind making it happen for the attention, and she's playing pretend? Would she be for real if she lived life saying she was sane? Is she actually psycho when she wants to choke the people who enter her brain?
Wouldn't it be terrifying to wake up and not know you're not normal?
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Post by EthanTheAnnus on Sept 27, 2017 1:02:33 GMT -5
This seems cool. Let's do it.
I guess I'm an idiot. or am i? i don't even know anymore? maybe i'm smart, maybe i'm not. maybe i'll become a famous artist or animator, maybe i won't.
does the she-cat always want to have kittens? is it really up to her? what if she decided to say no? what if she did something different?
are the voices in your head ever normal? do you ever want to get them out? the voices in your head can twist your thoughts,
make you see things and make the fantasy reality. they create illusions; both ones you can see and ones you can hear. they corrupt you, break you. or they can build you up, empower you and help you. you just have to be careful which ones you listen to.
or maybe this is me being paranoid.
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Post by Redfleck on Sept 28, 2017 21:42:56 GMT -5
I wrote something in the OTD Night Owlz that I thought would be proper to put here.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 2, 2017 9:23:39 GMT -5
I wish I felt like they did.
Others describe such emotions that they get when they see events, whether good or bad.
I feel empty.
I don't understand what they feel. Unless it happens to me personally, I can't provide comfort and understanding. I feel so fake trying to give my condolences and let people know I am there. I don't understand. I can't let them vent if they want comfort, because I can't say anything in response.
I don't want to be around anyone who suffers. I hate it. I can't help them, and that makes me feel horrible. I feel judged for not saying anything to comfort those who are suffering. I just don't feel their suffering, and I can't relate to them. I can't help it.
I want to help. I want to be there, to help them, to let them know that it will be fine.
I just can't.
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Post by Redfleck on Oct 2, 2017 22:50:38 GMT -5
Since probably forever, my mind has been really open to letting things come in and out. It's normal for me. If these things come from outside my head or from inside, I wouldn't know. I don't think I'm partitioning my reality hard drive (my mind) into different entities though, since that's dissociative identity disorder and I'm not traumatized. I just have a vulnerability to separation or to becoming possessed.
Entities inhabit my brain sometimes and they talk to me in my thoughts; they're not me, but sometimes I merge with them. They use my mouth to talk, and sometimes I'll respond out loud (only when I'm alone, though). To an outsider, it'll appear like I'm holding a conversation with myself. In fact, I'm really having a conversation with someone else using my body to articulate thoughts.
And here's where it gets complicated. Sometimes I can't tell who is "me" and who isn't, so I'll have a discussion without knowing who is talking. Sometimes, the foreign entity has a lot of influence over what I say. Sometimes, it's both of us at the same time! And sometimes its all just me, talking to myself, alone in a room, sitting on the floor, whispering to nothing.
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Post by Redfleck on Oct 2, 2017 23:03:58 GMT -5
I wish I felt like they did.
Others describe such emotions that they get when they see events, whether good or bad.
I feel empty.
I don't understand what they feel. Unless it happens to me personally, I can't provide comfort and understanding. I feel so fake trying to give my condolences and let people know I am there. I don't understand. I can't let them vent if they want comfort, because I can't say anything in response.
I don't want to be around anyone who suffers. I hate it. I can't help them, and that makes me feel horrible. I feel judged for not saying anything to comfort those who are suffering. I just don't feel their suffering, and I can't relate to them. I can't help it.
I want to help. I want to be there, to help them, to let them know that it will be fine.
I just can't. Relatable. My emotional state is also really flat. I don't know. It's always been like this. Every facial expression I make is exaggerated. When I am feeling something, I'm never aware of it until it's too late and I explode, but even then I can't fully register what it is. People tell me about how their days were. How they remember things. I don't remember a lot. Every day just blurs into a huge expanse of time. If dreams are just machinations created between two black curtains called Sleep, can I reasonably wonder about the realness of my life between two black curtains of unconsciousness? After all, it's the same thing, right? Sleep is just a lighter version of unconsciousness. Getting back to the point, let's say a friend approaches me and tells me about how they feel. I'm not good at empathizing either. It's a bit lonely. The friend tells me that they're sad, and I say, "That sucks. Why?" To be honest, I think the best thing a person can do in this situation is just to listen. Nobody appreciates fake people. I don't appreciate fake people, and I want to live up to my own standards. Silence has its good parts, too. Listening is helpful. One doesn't need to offer a hug (I'm bad at those) or any words of consolation (I'm bad at those too); merely just your time is greatly appreciated, probably. Needless to say, this is easier said than done. My sense of empathy isn't a "I feel how you feel" type; it's more of a "I recognize that your emotion is a negative emotion, so therefore I must stay far away." It's taken me many, many years to learn how to distinguish good moods from bad moods. It'll probably take several more years to become accustomed to seeing and being around emotional people. Needless to say, with all this emotional illiteracy, I'm not really good at expressing myself. I wish I were better at expressing myself. The most I can do with my amount of empathy is tell lies and pretend at things. I guess this is just a growth area for me. |
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Post by Redfleck on Dec 7, 2017 3:50:10 GMT -5
I don't know if all childhoods were like this, but my childhood was filled with daydreams and storytelling. Remember back when questions filled our minds, when curiosity filled our hearts? Back when we asked "why" after "why" after "why," over and over until our parents demanded we shut up. But even then, the insatiable appetite for information prevailed. Our brains went searching for something to devour, even if only to temporarily appease our churning hunger.
And as we grew older, we filled that pit and transformed it into a labyrinth, a database of sorts, perfecting and polishing what used to be the chaos of childhood. We learned to dust every corner, to collect every trinket, to expand the library of truths we must know; regardless if they entered through our books, computers, teachers, or dreams, we learned to fight for its existence; we learned to endure the disdainful gazes upon our relatively monochrome exterior, for we knew the only true treasures sparkle and shine within our minds.
It was in the labyrinth of thought and dreams where we sought comfort, a place to call home when the "real world" slapped our faces and abandoned us in student stress, drunken nights, and panic attacks. As the world disintergrated before our eyes, we ran back inside, reliving the past because the future is no more. The spines of our books began breaking, the pages yellowing and crumbling as we fail to move on from them.
But suddenly something reached to us—or rather, someone. We stared at the offered hand, uncertain, afraid. Out of paranoia, we shut ourselves out of the world for so long, living in the dark but secure depths of our brains, playing God in our own little universes. We didn't let it touch us, for fear it might destroy what little we had left. We, the children who could become anything, became the scum of the Earth, and we reveled in our glories of the past.
⠀
And some of us finally did take their hand. We opened our eyes and gave ourselves a second chance. We left our old labyrinths behind, but kept our most precious jewels. We learned to build new castles. Eventually, we went back to clean off the dust. For the first time since childhood, we opened our windows and let the light in.
Some of us still hide in the shadows, reciting the stories of a time long past. We dwell on the things that hurt, yet simultaneously try to bury them in the mess of old books and cracked pages lying before us. And the paper cuts at our fingers, bleeding black because in the absence of light there is no color. We curl up in the corner, waiting for someone to accept us—no, for someone persistent enough to allow us to accept them into our prison of a labyrinth.
Except no one is there. We are all alone. “Why?” you might ask. Well, that’s easy.
Just look around.
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