I Can Never Die

I found the most Tim Stoker fit ever while shopping

The Spiral

My guilty pleasure right now is watching luxury hotel reviews and I found this british guy who keeps accidentally clipping into the backrooms.

He's unintentionally making the best liminal horror content on youtube

This bitch- 😃

Called the DDD on his ass so quick

SOMEONE GET THIS MAN OUT OF MY HEAD, I THINK I'M GOING CRAZY AAAAAAAAHHHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHA

You should sleep

TW! self-hatred, grief, apathy, dehumanization, more tw's to be added

Note: this is a diary page written about my own emotions/struggles/views. it's written in second POV

Date: 8/24/24 -- 2:45AM

            You should really be sleeping now, not reading. Or writing, in this case, but it’s hard to sleep when you feel like you’re wasting your life! The voices of your loved ones ring in your head. ‘’you should make the most of it now’’ or ‘’you should go out more’’.

             You know that already, but you have no desire to see the sun or touch the grass—not when that specific presence isn’t with you. Something inside you has died, and all the joy has simply faded away. It’s hard. It’s hard to enjoy, to laugh, to feel. The emptiness within you is the worst thing in the world. You wish you could fill it, but nothing is ever enough for you.

Nothing satisfies the hunger of the monster you’ve become. Yes, you call yourself a monster. Because it’s true—you are a monster. You don’t heal, you don’t grow, you don’t change, you don’t believe or live; you only deceive. It’s a trait you inherited (you won’t say from whom), and it’s a burden. The destruction you bring is absurd. How can one person bring so much destruction? Why are you like this? You’ve destroyed so many things in your life. It’s depressing—so, so depressing.

            Sometimes I wish I could restart or pause, take a breath of fresh air, or have someone hold my hand and say, "Okay, slow down, breathe. Now, tell me." I’ve said those words to others many times, but why don’t I deserve to hear them? Why am I so different? Not in a cheesy way. Hell, I’m not even going to try to explain what I mean. If someone reads this someday, they’ll either understand or say I’m dramatic and stupid.

And to those who understand—I’m sorry.

I know how much you want to be held but can’t stand being touched. I know how you long for someone to pet you on the head, but you hiss and growl like a wild animal. I know how you yearn for warmth, yet still prefer the cold. I know how you read just to escape into those stories, to live vicariously through those characters, to imagine that your life could be like theirs, with those specific experiences. I know how much you want to live, to feel, how you start to absorb the emotions from the stories you read, just to feel something. But it’s not yours. That story isn’t yours, that emotion isn’t yours, that life isn’t yours—and it never will be. You’ll rot forever, alone, because nothing is good enough, and if it is, you can’t trust it, so you destroy it.

            That’s how you monsters operate. You seek comfort, you seek emotion, you seek getleness and when it’s given, you refuse it, you damage it, you destroy it. I’ll give you my gentle hands, and you’ll return them scratched and calloused. It’s your nature—to manipulate, deceive, destroy—over and over. No one knows what it’s like to be destructive, how dehumanizing it is. No one can come close because they’ll break or rather—you’ll break them . They’ll lose a piece of themselves, leaving empty and incomplete, because you just take and take and never give; you take away from others to fill your own void in your chest, to fit in whatever you can because it hurts. You once believed you had a heart, that you were good, but there’s no good, and there’s no heart and it is your own fault. You are what you hate the most. That’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?

            You should really stop, but all these emotions and thoughts that aren’t even yours are swirling in your head. You wish so much to be loved like the characters in the books. You wish you could be in their shoes, even with all their suffering, just to finally feel something other than the ache of the void in your chest. You swear, no one knows emptiness and loneliness like you do. You know you’re isolating yourself, but you don’t know why (maybe to protect those around you, maybe because deep down you care, but then you remember that there’s no deep down and that you are what you do). Your chest burns unpleasantly when people talk to you, and it feels gross, it feels wrong, foreign, unnatural. Sometimes you don’t even feel human, you feel like you lack the humanity necessarry to call yourself that. You’re confused, scared and uneasy, you aren’t sure what you are anymore. Are these your thoughts? Are these your feelings? Did you become someone else again?

You should really sleep

Sometimes I look at my writing and go "AI could never."

Grrrgrhh *bark* ghgrr The Magnus ghrgh Archives grrr grrrrrhg *bark bark* ggrrrrhrhrh *bark* grhrhrhhrrrr

In his defence, he is

he thinks hes soooo coool huh

Wondering if I should post the 3 am writing piece that this is a part of 🤔

Life update:-

I went from writing this:

"He had a way with words."

To this:

"He always knew what to say and each word that left those perfectly shaped lips of his was like the mead of poetry for which she would be down to trickery just to get a taste of."