Imitative-magpie - Magpie

Defanging Fear Itself

‘When I say end, I don't mean "lifeless", I mean "terminated life as we know it". This is an important distinction.’

 I keep staring at my dms, vacantly, pondering just what I’ve done. When I started to reach out out into the void, I had thought this was a noble sacrifice, and that if only I reached out-

Maybe I could erase all the harm that I’ve created. I think I lost track of that, somehow along the way. I was so caught up with filling this hollow part inside of me, so caught up with keeping myself warm that I hadn’t even considered the people I was setting on fire just to do so. 

…And here’s this guy, right? I’ve been talking to him for a while, and he just gets it. Everytime he talks to me, he’s given me nothing but sure guidance as if he can peer right into my mind and see just what I’m feeling- and lord, do I feel so much. It’s like I’m holding back an ocean of anxieties, and one word is the detonator. I think about what he’s told me a lot, mostly about how he died because I just couldn’t understand it. Why did someone so clever and swift have to die? How could you devote your whole life to something, only for it to turn around and stab you in the back? I think about myself, how I gave into the impulse, and I wound up in the hospital with an atrial fibrillation. I've given my whole life to something, and it's going to eat me alive.

‘Why did it have to end though? The world, I mean?’

Who am I trying to find? Would it really be helping them, if I asked them to remember me? Would sorry really be enough to rekindle their souls and make things right again?..Or am I just doing this for me? Maybe it’s better that I live my life, never knowing. The people I hurt may be living a beautiful life, far from the pain of whatever timeline that’s been shattered underneath my fingertips. I can only hope they are. 

He was willing to trade humanity for enlightenment, and because of it he was killed. Well, what does that make me?

 Is that who I truly am? 

Am I willing to kill the things I’ve been trying to save? Fear, it’s all I’ve talked about since I created this blog. Humans have been telling tales of fear since the dawn of man, because we crave the cortisol and adrenaline like rich silk under our fingers. I don’t think I was laying to rest your fears, when I came out of the dark to carve into you with inquiry, I think I was just breathing life into old wounds, and you deserved better than that. Trading a complete life for a high that will never hit the same hardly seems fair, so let's turn around and bite the hand that feeds us out of spite. It's hurt you, and it's hurt me. If we don't we'll succumb to desensitization, or an even worse fate. We need to defang these fears before they swallow us whole. 

I’ll defang myself first.

I promise. 

(Consent for this documented information has been given by all parties involved.)

Interacting With Many Works of Media, When Kinsidering

I’ve come to notice something, in my tireless journey to find my place amongst the cosmos. It’s something some of you may have felt before, which is why I have decided to document it here. I have had a number of amazing fictionkin reach out to me over the past couple of days to share with me their memories, their woes, and to impart their wisdom upon me- naturally, I tried to read up on and view nearly all of their sources. It’s my cross to bare, that I’m an overachiever in this regard, and I have no one to blame but myself for this feeling that has come over me. 

It’s sort of a fuzzy feeling, like my bones are weightless and I just can’t think straight. It’s not bad, it’s just…odd.  My brain feels completely fried, like I can’t convey myself as articulately as I had before. I’ve been ruminating over possibilities for a while, and I wonder if it’s because I’ve been thinking about it too much? And of course, it’s been a long while since I’ve had so much social interaction so it isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibilities that this could just simply be my lack of sociability catching up with me.

Do you ever see a post that makes you feel sad, and you can't place your finger on why..?

Do you ever wish you could take the steam with you?

Ocean Eyes

There is an eye at the bottom of the ocean, belonging to an old god whose name has been forgotten, but still leaves echoes in the memory of man. It's there, under the rolling waves and aquatic life. In a constant staring contest with our sun that's dripping crimson with the blood of so many who have given into their fears, the eye gazes not just on that sun but through every life that has ever lived in this reality we've found ourselves in, and so many others.

 When it finally blinks, the world will end. This is a fact. The Earth will begin to swallow us whole, and nature will take back what we've stolen from it. Bridges collapsing and headlights careering into the star filled glinting sea, into doors that were never meant to be opened. Fear and panic in the air, do you feel it too?.. and when that eye blinks, our sun will too. I want to look down into those depths just so I can reassure myself it's fine. ‘It was just a dream, a terrible, terrible dream that you had because you went into cardiac arrest,’

But it's still wriggling in my brain, pulling in and out of my periphery like a tide. So I think..

I'm going to run a little experiment. I've mentioned my urges- 

My fixation with hearing others experiences and memories, my drive to feel that connection, and to pick at the more distressing details of said memories. I would like to stop completely, just to see how uncomfortable I'd get. I want to document how long it takes until my resolve cracks, just to get a sense of how trapped I really am in this cycle.

So, if I don't post for a while, my blog isn't dead! I'm simply trying not to fall into a pattern that I've been feeding into for the past 3 months. I will post the results when I feel I've gotten satisfying results.

Hello👋

I hope this message finds you well. 🌷

I’m reaching out with a heavy heart, asking for

your support for my family, who are facing harsh conditions due to the ongoing war in Gaza 🕊️🇵🇸. We are struggling to survive, and I’ve launched a GoFundMe campaign to provide safety and basic needs. 🙏

Every share or donation, no matter how small, can make a huge difference. Your support can turn our pain into hope. 🌟

Could you please share my campaign post from my profile? It only takes a moment but would mean the world to us. 🫶

Thank you for your kindness and humanity. Together, we can make a difference. ❤️✨

🌷https://gofund.me/f6d17b3e🌷

-

If I may also give a recommendation for sources; the SCP Foundation, and a bunch of its canons, have a ton of 'doomed timeline' stories. I am specifically more versed in the Church of the Broken God and Sarkicism groups of interests, but I would also recommend looking into the O5 Council as what you have described may align more with them.

-@sssssaarn

I apologize for the late reply, I wanted to take a proper amount of time answering this one because truth be told, I had a bit of SCP phase back in the early 2010s, and of course I happened to take a peek into the fandom once again when liminal space aesthetics and ‘The Backrooms’ rose to prominence. I remember back yesteryear, how my peers would all sit around one kid while they played the game and desperately wishing for that kind of kinship, but I digress. There is something that certainly allures me about the SCP fandom as a whole. The aesthetic, but also the anomaly classification system.The idea of bringing order to something so naturally chaotic really intrigues me. All you need to do is just look at one symbol in the classification system and you immediately know what source material you’re interacting with.. Thank you for the recommendation, I certainly will consider it.

(x)

A Dream About A Cabin

They're standing around a table when I materialize in the corner. Pressed tightly together in their circle, shadows stretching over the walls, they whisper about the horrors of man and as they hit that crescendo of hysteria, their voices hiss into hushed silence. They know I’m with them now, bodies growing still. This is where I’m really taken aback- the majority of the figures at that table bleed into nothingness- as if they were never there to begin with, save for one man who turns slowly, the satisfaction is just dripping from his eyes when he faces me in full. 

“How nice of you to visit while I wait on my crime, were you hoping to find answers here?” He asks. It’s almost friendly and teasing but make no mistake, the mask that he wears has not put me at ease, I can tell that there’s something not fully human about him. He picks up on my glare that’s pinning him down for answers, and he doesn’t delay because he knows the sharp twist of hunger and the paranoia in our gut is the only thing that drives us. “You know- the life sentence you’ve subjected me to? Don’t you hear it underneath every dream, that hissing noise? Tell me, do you know who you are yet?” And he’s right, there is something just undercurrent. It’s whirring and clogged with dust. I begin to wonder if he really can’t leave this place… or if much like me, he’s been broken down into tiny, tiny pieces. “You don’t know, I can tell by that constipated look on your face. You don’t know, and it distresses you more than anything.” Sure, his smile is tight with mirthless cheer. This fear he sees in me is his own though, and that’s how he’s able to tap into it. “In the end it hardly matters, what’s in a name anyways? You and I still play our role of a voyeur all the same,”

What’s in a name indeed.

“I can show you things.” Suddenly his voice is right next to my ear as he looms from behind me. “Things that will leave you awake for hours, things that will make you think twice about wandering dark hallways alone at night.”  I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his face while he says this. For some reason, having him out of my line of sight makes me terribly uneasy. “Would you like that? You don’t have to answer, I already know.” And I would like that. I really, really would. All it takes is one second to get caught up in his purple prose, and suddenly I feel the urge pulling me under again. All it takes is for him to give me that final push, and the next thing I know-

I’m right back where I started. In a bedroom, standing over another victim. This one gazes at me through hollowed sockets, healed over through the ever merciful passage of time. I know he can see me though. He can sense me standing over him and he can imagine what I must look like, the unspeakable form I’ve taken, he fears it just as any other man that I’ve held in this very spot before him. He fears me, and I am a glutton by nature, so I press my fingers down into the mottled flesh, and let myself get pulled away by the currents of his memories. 

There was a cabin, long forgotten by those who came before. Built upon hallowed grounds from merging timelines, out far in the woods of Scotland, Isobel has gone missing.. And I have to bring her home. All through our lives, she had been the braver, more outgoing twin. In grade school she had been the one to hang upside-down from the monkey bars, the one to brave the dark and assure me that it would be alright- because she'd be there to protect me.

 She had always been interested in exploring new uncharted lands, and that interest of hers never seemed to be fully quenched. That wild side of her’s became more refined the older we got, her taking wildlife survival courses while I focused on our university's acting programs. 

The rock filled dirt road came to an abrupt stop, but I knew where I was heading, based on the letters that she had sent during the very beginning of her expedition- a little cabin, modest and in need of repair. When Izzy had said that she wanted to take a gap year to find herself, we had been supportive. Even more so when she said she wanted to use the time to pursue her passion of solo camping. It had seemed like the perfect vacation to her restless legs and wandering spirit. No one could have expected Isobel to have gone radio silent only a month into her trip, not returning home from even 2 weeks later. Had she simply lost track of time? I didn't want to think of an alternative answer. 

So here I was-  walking up to this haunted abode, ready to knock.. When I got the feeling of being watched. It prickled along the hairs of my arms and down my neck in icy fingers, dancing lines down my back. “Izzy!” I call out, but she does not answer to my knocking, the door remains shut. There's a scent to the air, sickly and metallic. It's the smell of death, I know it. Isobel is likely gone, but in a moment of nervous energy- I'm not sure what took over me, I began making my way around the back of the cabin in long leaping strides. I needed to find a way into that cabin. If Isobel was in there.. I needed to be there for her, like she's always been there for me. 

Eyes frantically searching for a way in, I decide that I'll grab a rock and smash the first story window. A window that looks to have already taken a beating, by some unknown sources. The rocks are small. These would hardly do the damage I was hoping for. I wander farther to the treeline, where a ditch of disturbed and peeled back earth is alive with flies. I fear the worst as I inch closer to the shallow burial, only to find.. Eyes. 

Eyes, plucked from a variety of animals, bloodied with the nerves still attached like outstretched appendages, eaten by the black flies that cluster around. I feel faint, and I once again feel the feeling of eyes upon me. She's standing there, hands bloody, eyes ravenous and frenzied. She's scared, and she wants to go home. She wants to go back to how it was before all of this. “Over here! Over here with me, where it’s safe!” She makes a frantic gesture for me, she wants me to walk over to her. Something is terribly off though. I take in the disheveled appearance of my sister-

“You haven’t bathed,” It seems silly that of all the things that stood out to me, that’s what I chose to point out. Her hair was matted and sallow in tangled clumps down her back. Grime and blood caked under her fingernails. She smelled of death. “Something awful happened in the bathtub of this house. Something terrible lives here.” I take a step back from her, glancing back at the shallow grave of eyes. Taking all this in, I remember what I wanted so desperately from these dreams. I am not Kieran O’Connor, I am Jules, and I need to ask a question right now.. But I’m terrified. I don’t understand how this could’ve happened to the O’Connor twins, they were such a happy family.

“Why?!”  It’s all I could think to ask. My voice is strained in my throat, but it’s my question, and that is all that matters at this moment. “Don’t you feel it? The eyes that are on us? Kieran, look into the woods!” She’s already looking past me, and so I did, and I saw everything. 

The woods had gone still, quiet. Birds perched on branches as stock still as could be, staring deep into us, emotionlessly. Squirrels halted in posture, facing their judging gazes with the lone pine marten, but there was more. A darkness in those woods, so terribly familiar gazed into me as well with its many, many eyes. I felt it look through the vessel of Kieran O’Connor and into my soul, just as I knew- something I’m unsure of how I became so certain of, that Isobel was doing to me, right now. I spun around on my heels to look back, and Isobel’s expression has changed. 

Isobel wore such a hateful expression. Have you ever had someone look at you with such a true level of hate that it left you frightened? That it warped their face and made them an uncanny looking stranger? I’m not talking about the usual mocking and disgust that people often exhibit towards those they take a disliking to. Isobel became something other when she recognized me. “It’s staring through you, too. I should have known better… than to have expected you to let me leave this place so easily.” 

“Put down the knife, Isobel.” But it was too late, she was rapidly advancing on me, mouth slightly agape and that hateful expression twisting once loving features. She was his sister. My head smack hard against the ground as she pushes me..Kieran, over. He trusted her. The knife angles down to his eye. How could this have happened? How could I let it happen? And I felt it as well as I had heard it, when the first eye was plucked free with a sickening pop. 

I don’t need to tell you, that this was when I woke up. You already know.

An illustration of the eye that I saw in my dream, created by these two images;

I drew over the top of the first image, but I hope this will help better explain to those reading just what I saw.

The Eye At The Bottom of Emerald Coast

This post is an update to where I have been for the last 2 weeks. I plan to write everything that I experienced, everything I heard, everything I saw– in excruciating detail for me. For my own peace of mind, so if you are perturbed by talk related to medical emergencies or long winded explanations about things as trivial as my feelings, then feel free to turn away. I won’t fault you for it, but this post is going up all the same, because I feel like this moment in my life meant something. It had to.

So, what happened? I'm just going to rip the bandage off and say, I had a cardiac event at work, and had to be taken away in an ambulance. I don't like having to share this because I feel like I always have something dramatic happening in this disaster of a life I've built for myself. I thought moving from my hometown and getting a medical degree was supposed to make my life more stable, but the groundwork I've created is crumbling around me, and the fall from grace started with a workplace argument. “I don't get why you don't trust us, we have been so nice to you, and yet you keep pulling this shit-”

“Look, I can't just turn trust on like a switch, Larry. If I could, I would just to get you off my back but don't sit there and lie to me. I know you all have been talking about me in secret. What was it about? Is it because of what I said about the freezer room? Is it- oh my god, did you find out why I left my last job?” I panicked, but the look on Larry's face told me that it was not information he was privy to… yet. “I do not think it's a coincidence that you all suddenly fall silent the second I enter the room. So am I just being paranoid or do you have something you want to tell me?”

“You're just being paranoid!!” He throws his hands up with his shouted exclamation, several people glance over at us. “Look, dude… Okay, we have talked a little bit but only because we're worried about you!” I raised an eyebrow of disbelief. “Seriously? After we invited you out to grab drinks with us, you still don't think we're friends?”

“I…don't  know what I think.”

I could feel the tension rising up in the back of my throat, like bile. Everything in the room pulsed as I took in a shaking breath, but Larry just pushed on. “Why are you so damn negative? I just don't get it, man. You know when you aren't going on about how the world is awful, you're actually fun to talk to-”

“Listen, bad always happen to me- I'm just reporting the facts,”

“This is exactly what I'm talking about-! Nobody is out to get you! I like you, Julius! I like you!” and I tried to say something in rebuttal but… I threw up right there at the table with no warning…and it was pure black, the texture gelatinous and bitter. I thought about how someone had told me once that black vomit is a tell towards a serious health issue and that you are close to death- and I know that's because of the coffee ground appearance of vomit during a gastrointestinal bleed, I know that, okay?  I could tell that wasn't what this was because it was downright acrylic looking in consistency,  but it was too late, the fear that I was dying was already firmly planted in my head. I could feel the prickle of eyes on me, making me feel even more panicked. “Oh shoot, let me go get some paper towels,” Larry said, but Gilbert was already making strides over to the paper towel roll on the counter in the breakroom. My head was swimming, and my shoulder began to throb so hard that it trailed up the side of my neck and that just freaked me out even more.That must've been when I lost consciousness, because I don't really recall much afterwards. I think Larry might've tried to coax me out of my seat, saying; “Okay, let's get you sitting on the ground before you pass out.”but besides that, it's a blur. All I wanted was to stand up and shake it off, and show them that everything was alright– but it was like I was trying to keep my head above water when the waves were crashing all the same, silencing my cries for help and pulling me under. I fought it the whole way down.

For a painful moment, it was just dark, and the only thing I was conscious of was that feeling where you've been dropped from a great height, that rush of adrenaline in a quick pulsing ’thump!’ and then I was far under the currents of emerald bay. The water was dark and rich, and it overwhelmed all my senses. It was all encompassing, in a terrifying way that made it impossible to tell which direction the surface was. For a second there it was nice because at least this felt constant, you know? It almost felt safe, in a way that was terribly deceptive. 'Thump!' There was something there, under the ocean floor. I couldn't see it, but it was there, its heartbeat shaking the tranquility of death.  I could feel it with absolute certainty. It made the sea pulse like a womb, and so I swam down towards the heartbeat that was drumming on, shaking the walls of my soul.

Because it's not fair. I played my whole life by the books. I kept my head down, I worked myself to the bone, and I always followed what was expected of me. I never put myself out there. As I kept kicking my feet, all I could think about was all the hobbies I repressed, all the people I could've kissed, all the things I could've brought into question- it wasn't fair. I wasn't supposed to die like this, never finding the closure I was searching for. I just wanted to understand who I am, I just wanted to know- was that really so awful? 

’Thump!’

And there it was, at the bottom of emerald bay, the thing that's haunted me, the explanation of my entire life looking right through me as if I wasn't merely my flesh. One, pulsing eye, flecked with the dark stars of infinite timelines and realities. I spent my whole life feeling lost, like I didn't know who I was, and now it was looking me right in the face like a macabre joke. I thought back to all that time I spent asking people about their experiences, and trying to selfishly fit myself into some space I could belong- the Supernatural kin community, the Madoka Magica kin community, the Mouth Washing kin community especially and it was all because of this thing. This thing I don't even understand. I wanted to, in spite of everything. I almost wanted to laugh at how bad it hurt…and because I have a sense of humor, as I reached out to stab into the pupil with my sharpened fingers, I thought to myself,

“I hope this hurts”

Some things about going into cardiac arrest at 24 years old; I recovered faster than expected. I could've been there for 16, 18 days… but I was only there for 11. Having all that stuff hooked up on me, especially the catheter, was sensory hell and so I made it everyone else's problem that I was feeling so rotten. That being said, I found myself not nearly as emotional about this experience. Surprising as that may be, it all felt sort of surreal. Like it wasn't me laying in that hospital bed but someone completely different. Oh, I hated that more than anything. You know what the real kicker was? They said it was triggered by stress. That I should be more careful when viewing horror content, among other things. Imagine the one thing that brings you joy. Imagine the climax of your absolute euphoria, a high that knocks you away from the woes of reality, your favorite food, your favorite song. Imagine asking a question, and never getting to live to hear the answer, no you've been condemned to ignorance. It was as if they just told me I was going to be living off saltines for the rest of my life. It was like they defanged me. Naturally I dealt with it in my usual healthy coping mechanisms- being an insufferable prick. 

Consider this a footnote, but-

The thing that pushed me over the edge in the end is confusing and because I don't understand it, I feel almost embarrassed to admit the amount of pain it doled upon all my senses. It was one of the nurses, the way she smelled. Over all that sterile cleaner and sour dread from the hospital, somehow I could make out notes of chamomile and bergamot as she whisked away with a clipboard in hand, and suddenly I was struggling to keep my composure, because I

Why? Why was this happening? Why was I doing this here, where someone could see me? Sure, no one was in the room but I could feel the prickle of eyes at the back of my neck. I was already in the throes of a nervous breakdown though, I could feel the lump in my throat forming and suddenly I wished I hadn't gone and pushed away anyone who even looked at me kindly. 

If I kept going down that train of thought, I'd surely embarrass myself. I mean– it's  not as if I've never had a cup of tea before, or had the pleasure of smelling a lit bergamot candle. For some reason, the warmth in it together just knocked the wind out of me. How do you process grief if you don't even know why you're grieving? So I just sat there, swallowing convulsively and thinking about the fact that I built my walls so high, that nobody visited me in this god forsaken hospital over the holidays. ’Well, that's not fair, maybe they visited early when I wasn't conscious and they just got turned away because they weren't family’ I try to tell myself, but deep down I know nobody tried because I really am that unlikable of a person. It's not even something I've learned, it's been like this ever since I was a child. If I just keep telling myself it's all of this is worth it, then maybe one day it will be. I just have to keep clawing at the walls of this existence until I break through.

damn, still no TMA on the kinsidering list? ;P - steph

Ah, you've noticed I don't have it categorized under complete, revised and/or a possible match. I understand why this might come as a surprise given the high number of source suggestions for this particular media, so maybe this might be a good time to break down my method in categorizing and researching different sources.

In order for me to feel comfortable organizing it under any one group, I try to at the very least get through at least one full watch through, read through, et cetera. From there, I will mark the source as completed, and look over the notes I have taken on what felt familiar to me or stood out. 

This is where I revise my notes and go through a second watch through comparing my previous notes with what I have written about my own experiences. Then and only then, will I categorize a source revised, or even possible match. Of course there are outliers to this method. Namely a certain famously long webcomic I had to make a special exemption for this rule. 

That being said, The Magnus Archives is still uncategorized in my source list because while I have gotten to know a couple of wonderful fictionkin/fictives from said source, I regret to say that I have not yet viewed the content. I do plan to remedy this however, in short time.