Owen

Welcome to my blog! This here is my wonderful little intro post, fully expanded under the cut. Let’s begin, shall we?

last updated (15/7/26)

Anyway, I might be The Master from Doctor Who. Which definitely breaks the pattern.

YOU PROTECT MY BLOG

— @sammytheyote

I understand! Yes, I am Jon, and I'm completely fine with doubles. Lovely to meet you!

I know what you mean by feelings rather than memories. Ironic, I feel, for beings so focused around watching to be stuck with such incomprehensible, indescribable perceptions of ourselves. In terms of your search for what happened to you before I'm afraid I probably won't be much help, but I'm always willing to talk about my own experiences!

My relationship with that Jon, the one not in this body, is strange. I'm aware I'm not him, but something feels strange about that fact. As if something went wrong in this world, and I ended up as someone I am not and should never have been. I wish I was that Jon. Those Archives, those domains, that feeling I had of connection with the eye, I miss it. It's strange, to miss a world you were never logically a part of.

That world feels warm, to me. Like tea, or a blanket, or a fire. Warm and comforting. Isolating, too. To know that home is so close, and yet so very far away. I'm afraid, sometimes, of what it means.

The archives are such a terrible place. Filled with fear and horror and death. But here I am, wanting to return. As if they were ever mine to begin with. I miss the disorganised stacks, and the relentless gaze always upon me, and the people. God, I miss them so much. I think I miss Tim the most. He deserved so much better than what he got. At least he got his revenge, I suppose.

I think I miss the Knowing above all else. I feel so stuck here, where I can't know things at a click of a finger or Watch the world move around me. It's nice to feel whole, as every part of my consciousness is only in one place, but I feel empty, too. Something is missing.

I miss a world I never stepped foot in.

Sorry, I'm rambling. I hope other Jons are able to help you more than I can. But if you ever wish to talk, I am always here.

A. Orange ring engraved with Identification Code (still need to make one but it's complex okay)

B. Silver ring with Other Identification Code (also still need to make one but it's still complex okay)

C. Collar

D. Dog tag

Like if I met a Fox Mulder fictionkin then I also kin him but once he’s gone I don’t anymore

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It hurts, I think, to miss someone you’ve never known. I know I’m not Them. I know I never will be. I know I’m mourning fictional characters who exists only in the confines of my mind. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Sometimes I want to find sourcemates, people who feel the same way I do, who miss me as I miss them, but that won’t happen, and even if it does it wouldn’t be the same because they’re this them and I want that them. And my alterhumanity is so loose right now, as is every other aspect of my being, that I barely think let alone act like who I should be. It would be like talking to a stranger for both of us.

I wish people would see me as who I am. Paul Matthews, Gordon Porlock, Ryland Grace and Martin Blackwood and so many others I haven’t found the name for yet because that’s who I am, not this weak and fragile body with its broken skin and broken heart. I should be more than this and I never will be. You don’t see me as them, I know. Nobody does. And that’s okay, I know I’m not them, but I should be. Something went wrong and now I’m stuck here, without the ones I should have known and the home I want to go back to, but that never was my home, was it? I never lived there, I never worked there, none of it is real. Just CGI and camera effects, that’s all.

You are. You just don't know it yet.

It's a thought that sticks in your mind sometimes. When the nights are cold, and the darkness comes closer, all you can think about is those videos you used to watch. Those creatures, so content in the knowledge of their wrongness, sharing a connection over something inside them that was broken. That's what it is, what it has to be, because you're not broken, and so they must be, because then you can't be one of them.

One of your friends is. You don't really talk to her much, but you know she is. She's cool. You research what it means, just for her, as it's always good to learn more about your friends. You don't quite understand what they mean. How do you identify as something you're not? Is that even an identity? You don't understand, but you still try to learn as much as you can. It's good to know.

Your friend says he doesn't like how dissimilar he is to the characters he loves and you see how happy he gets when he's compared to those same characters. You recognise it from the nameless hours you've spent searching the darkest depths of the internet. You assume he knows, but you're not like that, so you have no right to ask him about it.

He doesn't know. You don't either. But you will. Give it time.

You don't know when you realise. It's slow, like the tide coming in, the realisation as to who you are settling over you like a weighted blanket, heavy information weighing down upon you, comforting and terrifying.

You build a mask out of clay not even a week later. It doesn't help you, but its a start.

You make another mask, this time felted, and paint it over Christmas. You try to make a tail. It doesn't work that well, but you try. You have a bad day and make gloves with paw pads made out of hot glue. You learn a thousand different ways to make these things and slowly the wrongness you've felt ever since you were born leaves, piece by piece. You start a Tumblr to talk about it with creatures like you and your partner realises something similar. You are afraid to know but you are finally whole. You wish your friend a happy therianthropy day on bonfire night and you think she knows, now. You recognise your symbol on another friends bag and it makes you smile every time you see it. The world is not all good things but sometimes things are easier now.