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No.162
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could be samskara/safskara, that's the first one that comes to mind when i think yume nikki doujin.
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No.126
I lived a rather normal life… well, happy life is probably a more appropriate term when I was younger till I'd say about 4 or 5 years old, it's been so long I can't remember. I used to be extremely social, play outdoors, I had such a tan I was mistaken for an african american at times. However, when I was around 5 years old, my mother and father got divorced. I lived between them, my mother on week days and my fathers on weekends. My parents soon got remarried. It was my mother getting remarried which changed me drastically. My mother married somebody whom fought constantly, I was never in a conflict with him or his children, but just hearing him and my mother fight really just made me hate people. Humanity in general, more and more. It made me reclusive, it made me dwell deep into the cyberspace, ignoring social standpoints or regulations and embracing taboos rather than simply living by the social standpoint. Through this, my relationship with my family, friends, and such became so dwindled that I completely alone, and even my old escape route of the internet soon fell apart. I had a very few amount of E-friends whom I held onto so tightly that we grew apart, and it hurt me quite a bit, the experience with them turned me extremely paranoid over my feelings. A couple of years went by, and my mother and stepfather have finally split apart. I am rather happy about this, and my relationship with my family atleast is getting a bit better, however my hatred for mankind life in general has still stayed at it's level.
No.128
I was cursed with a weak voice. My yell is the average person's conversation volume, and no matter how hard I try, I can never talk to someone from across a room. It's made my life pretty rough, but at the same time I suppose it has its perks. In high school, my teachers never called on me because they knew they wouldn't be able to hear me from my desk. I had a small group of friends who grew used to my mousy nature, and would help be my translator for the rest of the world. I can't say I had much to complain about through those times… But then about when my birthday rolled around last year, everything started falling apart. On Christmas morning, we found my grandmother dead in her bed. She passed in her sleep I guess - real peaceful. Then my grandfather got sick. He had severe heart problems, diabetes, skin cancers, lung problems, you name it, he probably had it. They progressively grew worse as time went by, and within 2 months, he passed away too. This was a big deal for me since my grandparents raised me since I was about 5 or so. Within 1 month of that time, my closest friend was killed by a drunk driver who struck her car head-on. Of course he survived. To top it all off, recently I lost my childhood home to a wildfire. It left me homeless for 1 month. Now I wasn't all depressed or anything, but holy shit was I tired. I had no energy, and barley had the drive to eat. Luckily a young man from my school invited me to move in with him just a few weeks ago, and desperate to find a house that wasn't also a car, I accepted. It's now me, him, my cat, and his dog. It's fairly nice I must say. Our pets get along well, and so do we. We're both kind of quiet, but in different ways. I'm shy, but he just doesn't say anything unless he needs to. I think it's safe to say I'm getting over this year quite well, and I think the two of us might actually settle down for real together. We kinda grew a liking for each other recently while watching Masterpiece Theater. I don't know though. But then again it would seem I don't know much of anything anymore.
tl;dr I'm rather boring and don't do much.
No.160
I must scream.
-
During a dream perhaps a few weeks ago, I had a bit of an epiphany. In that dream, I equated failure with despair. When I woke up, I considered this revelation to be quite significant. This is in part due to my experiences in the past of wrestling with that deep-seated, ancient darkness which a psychiatrist might call major depression, that I call absolute despair.
I cannot impart to you just how that feeling existed, how it was etched into every fiber of my being, how it tortured me, sapped away at my life, how it drove me to the frozen pits of Hell (for, having seen it for myself, I know it is not a blazing inferno as I had once so immaturely thought it to be), where the frozen tundra ground was seamlessly welded to the black sky, where the horizon was infinitely unapproachable, impossible to see, where dreams were dreamt but died.
But if I could, I would, and I would force it down your throat. Oh, how I loathed existence. How I wished I could make others loathe their own existence, and existence itself. The sheer agony of it all, writhing and dying, sleeping in sweet oblivion, but to awake again the next morning to see a grayscale world, to hear a monotonous drone…
I digress.
So, I had this dream, this dream that told me failure means despair.
And ever since that horrible wretchedness, that profound darkness, I have felt something tugging at me. A dim call, as though the source of it was behind a wall. I can just barely make it out. It tells me to fail, to seek that solace again where I first found despair.
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No.161
Yes, ever since I started on the medication, life has become bearable, perhaps even pleasurable. But I still feel it. That overhanging darkness that threatens to consume my fragile existence as though I were nothing. Not that I am anything; but a pile of dead flesh, not quite fully realized to its death! It calls to me, it calls to me, it tells me to fall, fall, fail and be filled with despair again.
Especially on night's like these, I can feel the pull strongly. That agonizing pressure, incomprehensible, this inexplicable heartache…
Enter the jewel that I found during my long trek through the darkness. Perhaps a year before now, perhaps, that I first found a jewel of brilliant light. A jewel amongst filth. A treasure most beautiful.
I hadn't found a friend like that in a long time. Perhaps, never. Yes, I never had a friend quite like this. He stuck with me through the nadirs of my life. Kept the days barely tolerable, an incredible feat. Chained me to the physical world, he did, perhaps prevented an end that involved a six story fall.
Thus, during that harrowing trek through the shadows, I found a jewel, which I came to love.
But I'm being tested. I'm being tested by those eyes in the umbra, that watch me, that scrutinize me. They're always watching me, whispering to me, that I should fail and fall into despair.
But my friend does not wish for me to fail.
And yet, I feel as though, perhaps, failing would make it all pass easier.
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No.43[Reply]
What do you all like to write on most?
I like writing in blank hardcovered books with ink marker-pens. I just love the way the pen feels on the paper, and just, turning the page, and, just, hard, covered, book. I … love books so god damned much. so much.
Typing has a nice feel too but I definitely definitely prefer writing.
Leaflets of paper used to be a favorite of mine. I have stacks inches high of leaflets. I would write on small scrap leaflets of paper. like hall passes, late slips, etc. (hahah highschool.)
It gave it such character. such an in-the-moment feel. and the moments oftentimes were linked with the scrap it was written on. haha.
it just, felt right.
I want to write with a calligraphy pen but I'll have to learn how to write top-to-bottom or something, since I'm a lefty…
clay sounds cool to write on.
No.44
For the sake of convenience and writing fast, my laptop is wonderful. I used to have an old keyboard that my mum had gotten from a yard sale, but I left it at their house when I moved. Loved it, but finding ink ribbons was nearly impossible too.
I usually keep a small notepad and pen on my person too. I'm not partial to anything in particular, but I love storycrafting on pen and paper. Or napkins. Or toilet paper. Or anything that pen can leave a mark on, lol.
I sorta miss that old typewriter, though. Maybe I'll get another one once I find a job. I enjoyed it and there was a sort of novelty to it. The restrictions are nice too, it made you think more carefully before you wrote because if you messed up, you'd end up going back and typing Xs all over the word and end up with a messy looking draft.
…That was sort of what I liked about it, though. I'm definitely going to buy one sometime in the future, I miss that rusty old thing.
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No.152
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not sure if the silly names or that they were banned is funniest
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No.134
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>>119
thank you…
No.146
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>>145
anything i post on the net you'll find here, as here is the only place i post things on the net…
thank you very much for the nice comment…
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No.23
>>22
If all educational books read like text books, or books you would obtain in school or college, I wouldn't like them either. Michio Kaku, is one of my favourite authors because his books are educational, but they go by well, and puts his teachings in very good examples, which you can apply to daily.
Hyperspace isn't 'Science fiction', nor is it really Futuristic, it's discussing the phyics behind wormholes, and higher dimensions. I'm a science nerd, so that's probably the only reason I'm enjoying it so much.
Unfortunately, when I started Lolita I was quite busy, and it kept drawing me away from the book. I didn't even get to finish it despite it being quite an amazing book.
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No.115[Reply]
_Justice_
You wake up in a sterile, windowless hospital ward. It is brightly lit by a fluorescent light and beside it is a ceiling fan. You look down and see that your entire body is enveloped by bandages; almost like a cocoon, you are covered from head to toe, but your limbs are still free to move. You attempt to move your right arm but it does not respond. With an extreme force of will, you raise your arm an inch above the bed sheet, only to let it crash back down a moment later as a wall of pain breaches your consciousness and momentarily turns the world into colours. Stars streak across your vision while you promise yourself not to do something like that again. For now, you take the time to observe the room you are in (without twisting your neck; that action appears to be impossible in your current state).
There is little to say about it: its walls have been painted entirely in white and the square tiles are a light grey. Your bed sheets are also white. The metal frame of the bed is light blue. Beside your bed is a stand holding up a bag of intravenous drip, attached by a thin, clear tube to your left arm. Opposite of you is the door out of the tiny, barren room. It is of a beige colour.
As you try to grasp your predicament, your mind slowly begins to drift into the sea of the past. Memories begin to play across your vision like an overlay of film. Images of people running about like ants around a destroyed anthill oscillate in and out of existence. A warm, orange glow spreads upon the walls of the room, flickering, as if there is a flame in the room. You close your eyes, hoping to rid yourself of the hallucinations. However, you rapidly descend into unconsciousness…
No.116
It is dark - not impenetrably dark, for the full moon is casting its silver light through the closed windows that you stand beside. The room you are in is filled with damp newspapers. The aroma of gasoline permeates the air. A trickle of sweat rolls down your forehead as you tighten your grip on your hostage. You have your arm across his chest, restraining him, and your knife near his face.
"P-please, let me go, I-I'll do anything," whispers the old man.
You scrape your knife across the skin of his neck as you tell him, "Shut it."
You look opposite to you and all you see is the glint of the handgun. That is what you focus on as a third voice calmly commands: "Let go of him, drop the knife, and raise your hands slowly into the air." You stand still, reflecting the cop's cold exterior.
"I don't think so," you reply, as you adjust the grip on your victim. You free up your right hand and reach into your pocket to find a detonator, which you take out deliberately and show to the police officer. You let the moonlight illuminate it. "I think you should reconsider your position." You can faintly see the officer scowl and grit his teeth. He holsters his weapon and shows his hands.
"Now, now," he says. "Let's not make any rash decisions here. You'll blow yourself up too." There is a brief pause, during which you smirk.
"I'm counting on it."
You press the button on the detonator.
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No.117
The door is shaking so hard that you feel as though it will disintegrate at any moment. Its vibrations wrack the entire room; the stand from which your bag of IV drip hangs is rattling, as is your bed's frame. The entire room trembles in fear, like a child cowering underneath its sheets, hiding from a dark terror behind a closet door. You can make out a distant howling of wind through the sound of the quake; oh, how you wish that it is only as simple as a tornado in the middle of an earthquake. But deep in the dark recesses of your soul, you know that what is outside of the door is far more malevolent than a mere show of violence on nature's behalf. As the unrelenting shaking grows, it slowly invades those recesses of your soul, destroying the barriers between them and your consciousness, bringing the most primal and animalistic nightmares forth; and still, you cannot scream, for help or out of pure trepidation.
With the force of a giant's punch, the door slams open. Silently, you watch in horror as you gaze out of the frame into a black abyss dotted with glistening lights reminiscent of light shining across the backs of a million carapaces. The howling is like the death rattles of a god. Every fibre of your being resonates with the disharmonious music. The storm in is full force now; all of the air feels as though it is being sucked into the fathomless darkness by a whirlwind. Your instinct is to run away, hide in a corner, and screw shut your eyes, but you are fixated upon the fissure of reality. You thrash about in your bed, making muffled croaks, ignoring the spasms of pain that shoot through your limbs and torso, all the while watching that aberrant gap in the wall, as though an abomination would crawl out of it. Your fear is almost palpable.
Finally, as if to collect your terror in a pail, it comes. It first appears as a dark speck moving across the pinpricks of light in the background of the unholy vista. Then, you see it flying toward you; the gallows. The obsidian structure smashes into the floor, shattering into innumerable fragments, which collect by themselves and coalesces once more into that unbearable sight - the gallows. Reflecting upon its hard surface is a conflagration devouring an apartment. Out of thin air, a rope appears above the gallows and ties itself to the hanging arm. The other end stretches towards you and wraps around your neck, wrestling you from beneath your sheets, pulling you to the gallows. You fight to Post too long. Click here to view the full text.
No.118
You cannot tell whether the howling is from the outside or your own voice as you struggle and choke, swinging from the gallows. You claw at the rope around your neck, ignoring the pain that wracks your body. But there is no escape.
There is no escape, not for a criminal like you. There is no escape, not for a failure like you. There is no escape, not for filth like you. There is no escape, not from the despair that strangles you. There is no escape, not from the punishment you sought to cheat with a painless death. There is no escape, not from the suffering eternal. There is no escape.
When the nurses come in to check your status, they open the door and scream. They find you hanging from the ceiling fan, strung up by your IV drip's cord.
You are dead.