A Dream About A Ghost

Thank you so much for the tag, Nezz 

I'm tagging, @fallen--starlight @specter-solaire @kenopsia-ksp @is-this-camera-on , @bohemianrpdsy @apocalypticautumn @peculiareyezer and @quinnlistspeaks , but anyone else who visits my blog and sees this, feel free to join in 

picrew chain time!! make yourself a cheeky little icon using this picrew, reblog & tag ur pals!! to start us off: @lightyaoigami @lightyakami @deelavis @dreamfilleddonuts @catboymettaton @vorareromantic @queer-omens-in-the-archives

Okay because I have no idea, how does House of Leaves work?

It’s a book about a guy stuck in a hellish version of a 90s stereotype who finds an academic paper about a documentary film about a home that is bigger on the inside than it should be. Except that the home isn’t a real home. The documentary doesn’t exist. The academic has no credentials.

It’s a book about a guy who finds an unfinished novel his neighbor died in the middle of writing about a photojournalist who puts aside his career to save his marriage but who gets sucked into an adventure within his own home.

Except that it’s none of those things. It’s an assault on the reader. It’s a crowbar thrown in your confidence in The Consensus. Its (404) errors in the directory of Narratives.

The House is older than God. The House is God. The House is nothing. The House is a 5 letter word in a blue font.

The House doesn’t like tourists

It’s a typographical horrorshow. It’s a caricature of an analysis of a documentation of a map. It’s an Atlas of The Backrooms. It’s a non-Euclidean document. It’s the only book I’ve ever hissed at.

“How does it work?”

It doesn’t

Your Earliest Experienced Memories As Alterhuman, Fictionkin, etc!

I have admittedly been bogged down to my work, so I apologize for the silence. I'm married to my job and academic courses first and foremost...

After having so many wonderful conversations with you all, I would like to open a conversation to any and all who see this post. Recall your earliest memory that you experienced. Was it when interacting with something that triggered your memories? Was it when viewing a television program, or reading a chapter from a book in a dark corner of the library? Perhaps it came to you in a dream. However it came to you, I would like to hear all the details that you are willing to provide because you all have such remarkable stories, some that have been left unsaid. You deserve it to yourselves to share your stories, to let yourselves be known.

I don't get why nothing is working, I was supposed to get better this was supposed to work. Why am I not grateful? I nearly died just a month ago and somehow I'm discontent with my life and I'm discontent in my own body, I don't get it.

I Have Never Been A Hero

I’ve had time to reflect upon my dream, and it has led me to some revelations about my own nature, and what lines I’m willing to cross in order to find the truth I’m so desperately craving. I think that the reason the dream bothered me so much is that I don’t know if I would’ve done differently if I had another chance. I have never been a hero. 

I wanted to once, you know–

Even before I had so many wonderful tumblr users trying to help me find my identity, even before I put it out there into the universe with absolute certainty that I was a villain, people have always compared me to the antagonist of the story. 

It's a vibe I'm giving or something I'm doing, maybe it's the sins I carry on my back. 

I remember reading all these books as a child, and even when I outgrew them and I'd be loathe to admit to what would indefinitely ruin the academic image I have so painstakingly built up around me like a shell-  the classic fairytale story always held a special place in my heart. 

I would sit there with my eyes scanning over every line, rereading the best parts, the ones that really made you feel like you were there with the protagonist, and I would think, 

‘I want to be the hero. I want to save the princess from a tower and defeat the big bad and live happily ever after!’ …but I don't think I'm that. These things that I do, digging into the depths of people’s anxieties, and breathing them in as if it were my own.. I don’t think it’s a noble cause, to tear into other’s fears in hopes of finding my own closure. So I’m not a hero. 

People seldom are, it's rare to find that kind of excellence out in the world but even with all the signs pointing that I'm a villain, or a monster, or god forbid a world ender– it is flattering that so many people reached out to me, when my mood has been so low. There is something about hearing about so many wonderful stories of others that keeps me tethered, and for that I'm grateful to all of you. The beauty in your experiences is what makes everything worth it- both your triumph and strife. So please, bare with me. Even if I am a villain.

Hey!! i stumbled across your blog (or you across mine lol) and i wanted to wish you luck on your fictionkin/otherhuman journey!

I’m fictionkin myself but i have a bit of a weird relationship with past memories or lives etc etc so i’m not sure i can help much on that front, but as for your unknown source, could it maybe be Supernatural? I’m a Dean Winchester kin and it sounds like your memories could be pretty parallel to SPN themes???

Thank you so much for reaching out to me. I have heard of the source material, and I won't deny there is a fair bit that lines up. Truth be told, the concept of horrors hiding amongst the mundane monotony of everyday life is something that speaks to my very soul, and the theme of trying to track down said horrors in the first place. I have and probably still will look deeper into it in order to find familiarity. 

Oh. My. God. That’s it. That’s the copypasta that haunted my childhood back when I was still naive and gullible. I remember when copypastas had hit the absolute peak of popularity in the early 2000’s, often posted in comment sections and on message board websites. I must’ve been about 10 years old when I’d first seen that block of text show up under a youtube video I should not have been watching (My parents often left me with my grandmother, who tried and failed to keep me from viewing unsuitable media). I remember reading it, and immediately saying to myself how stupid it was… And then, because I didn’t have an account to forward the message to, I lived my life under the impression that my days were numbered for 2 straight years. 

There were rituals, and bargaining involved- I would write long winded letters to the ghost from the story, arguing why I should live, and then leaving them on my bedside table. Of course when anyone asked what I was doing I’d lie and say I was working on a short story to save face and not admit 

1.) That I was viewing horror media I shouldn’t have, and

2.) That I was gullible enough to be scared of such things

And now when I read it back I can see why; This is utter nonsense! All that time, I could’ve washed my hair in peace without being afraid of being pulled down the drain as a child, gosh I feel like a chump.

yeah sorry if it's out of your style

Huh.

A Dream About A Kindled Flame

He’s rough, glaring at me with brown eyes that are tawny and sharp. The burns encompass his entire being, his nose crooked and scarred, his neck licked by intricate scarring as he lays there, waiting for me. I won’t bore you with the details- we all know how this goes. 

The story really begins in a bar. My name is Jim Navy, and I’m a wanted man. There’s just so many criminals in downtown Chicago, I never stood out, and so I was never caught for my heinous actions. So long as you keep your head down, you can live as a ghost during the day and a monster during the night. I remember when I was young and romanticised this lifestyle, how I thought that it would grant me respect and protection, but these people out here are nothing more but rabid dogs, willing to throw you under the bus for a moment's notice. I found no loyalty in Chicago, but I made sure I always came out on top. Whether it be a crook trying to con me, or a late night lover threatening to go to the cops, I got my last word in. There was nothing more to it than that.

‘Sometimes I still think about her face, after I cut her throat.’ This was the thought in his mind that allowed me to disconnect from him in the dream. As he remembered the woman he killed and mugged, I too could feel her face burning the backs of my eyes. ‘This man is a monster,’ and still he takes a long fluid swig off his beer. He’s haunted by the actions he took that night, is how he tries to ration it with himself, but it doesn’t stop him from sauntering over to the pretty redhead who's been staring him down across the bar since the moment he walked in and making the same mistakes he did that night. She’s so pretty though, you can’t hold him accountable for his actions when the woman looks like that, right? Is what he tells himself, and I find myself wanting to gag.

He is right though, she is beautiful. Long dark red hair that's impossibly straight, and wild amber eyes. She smirks as he takes a seat across from her at her table, and purrs out a simple, “Took you long enough,” and from there, he drunkenly stumbles into the same mistakes. Sharing too much, asking to take her back to his place, telling her all the things he expects will happen should she go home with him, and she’s all smiles in agreement, but since I’m not Jim, I can see the steady calculation in her eyes. This is a trap where the hunter will soon find out he’s prey. 

She pushes me against the wall in a passionate kiss, trapping my arms above my head in a pose that leaves all my vital organs open for attack. It’s passionate, and I can feel the heat sweltering around us in the back alley. There’s something chemical fueled in her perfume that’s making me dizzy. It permeates the cool night air along with the heat that exudes off our bodies. 

This girl is taking over.

I never got this sort of attention before, not really. It’s rare that attractive women pay me any mind, so my head is still floating when she roughly sinks her hand into the back pocket of Jim, and fishes out his wallet. It’s then that she abruptly pulls away, looking through the mementos of drivers licences he keeps, of all his victims. “What’re you doing, angel face?” He slurs, making a reach for hands. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay the hell back.” The charm has been forgone, and her voice is hot with venom. “How many people have you killed?”

“What the fuck?” His voice is slurred as sweat drips down his temple. The heat comes off of her in waves, like when you first open an oven on a cold winter night. You can see the steam, as she begins to ignite, flames fragmenting off her frame. 

“Wait!” She pauses when it’s my voice that comes through, and not Jim’s. This isn’t how the story goes, afterall. Curiously, the fire engulfed entity that now stands before me cocks her head to the side.. Imploring me to continue. “Does your abnormally high body temperature have any any affect on your neurological function? Because I read-” She cuts men off with a stunned cackle, and in the absurdity of the situation, I can’t help but timidly join her laughter. After all, it’s not every day that you find yourself about to be killed by the human torch. 

Set me ablaze, she did. It was horrific, the fire crackling and searing away layers of flesh. I desperately grabbed at her, only to find her body the consistency of half melted wax. A cruel and horrible death, but I found myself wishing I hadn’t wasted my question on something so stupid.. I was intrigued by her.

Final Conclusions;

I bludgeoned sobriety with a bat, and left it dead in the woods. It died an ugly death, kicking and screaming as I tore it limb from limb- because I am so hungry. I can’t help it, I don’t want to know what I am without someone here to latch onto the memories of. I can’t help it, this is who I’ll always be. So now that you know I’m trapped, let's get into our findings;

Within  the very beginnings of the experiment, I found that when I received notifications in my dms, I felt a nervous energy. It was almost an impulsive reflex, telling me to answer my dms. That I was breaking the rules of social interaction. According to my two observers that I unwittingly roped into the experiment, they had said that my urge to return back to these behaviors showed an overall consistency, or as Steph lovingly put it, “(...)You were crawling out of your skin since day one.”. 

That being said, I had noticed a steady increase of sporadic behavior from that point on, including thrill seeking urges that included a momentary fantasy about going bungee jumping or taking a detour into the woods on my way home from work to scream until my lungs give out. These urges were accompanied by dietary changes, cravings for starch based comfort foods that suggested that I was under stress.

 The idea that I was under stress is further backed up by the observations of my aforementioned participants of choice, one of which (Evan, the problem child) had brought to attention my discomfort multiple times throughout the experiment. 

At the end of the experiment, it had been brought to my attention by Steph that, “You’re trying to collect and address primarily qualitative data with quantitative methodologies and as a result are losing out on a lot of useful information, both in this experiment and general interview practices,” which was a great point, seeing as throughout the entirety of my blog, I've been trying to assign tangible and numerical findings to something as intimate as kin memories.

 Now that I'm back, I plan to remedy this, starting with openly sharing about what makes me experience mental/phantom shifts, and what has spoken to me so far throughout this search into what source I belong to. 

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.

It has come to my attention that simply having one post on my blog, without posting anything else to get my account name out there or to at least allow others a tell on my personality in order to see if I am familiar to them, is overall counterproductive to my blog. So, I will occasionally post on here. I can't guarantee that the majority of them will be fictionkin related either-- so look forward to that dashboard whiplash showing up on your screen.