#bliss?

Not enough eldritch horror is injected into stories with mechanics and themes around story telling. Like some rando creature you can not whole understand, with a word, could strip then rebuild your world. And you would never know it, and all that all that change, balance, and control forced upon you? its ‘cause this was is more Intersting! something completely alien to you, a creature that in its head hold thousand’s and thousands’ of world like yours, just as delicate just as real in its head, could change everything casue its fun? how many times has it changed? how many times have you changed, how many heads have you lived in? you are both impossaibly older then this creature and incredibly young. there is no way you could know, there is no truth to know, only ever changing ever remaining and forever recycled stories. did you make the creature? Or did it make you? these creatures that control your world, older and younger then you dissect and examine your world piecemeal, and use the dregs to build more. You yourself are from a fraction of a dream of an other such creature and yet, here you are? What is choice is a story about the power of story telling except a communal lesson for creatures you have no understanding of? That is all enjoy the vibees.Story telling is neat. (copied from obnioxiously writtend discord rambling. 

@ezerkenegdc || random inbox?? ||  “can you hear my voice?”

Gray can feel everything about this place seeping into his bones. They came here to make things good. Came here to do what they did everywhere else. Spread hope. Give people a fighting chance. Build something new out of the wreckage with their own hands. All that’s ruined. Everyone is dead. He can’t find Rush anywhere. Every lead turns up ghosts. Nothing more. Then it’s like a god damn jigsaw puzzle trying to get to the next place. Always two minutes, too late. And now?  Nothing feels real.

Breathing in deep again, his brain refuses to clear. Only gets worse. He’s slouched against two walls, rubbing at his nose and the inside corners of his eyes. His insides twist and he lets his head rest back into the corner he’s sat himself in trying to make heads or tails of what the hell is happening. Eyes close. Heavy limbs sink into a warm numb. Even when his eyelids swing open and the world pulses back to life? All he does is mumble about getting his shit together. In a minute. Sleep’s not a luxury he’s had in days.  Darkness comes and he lets it ease him into rest. Another breath and the soft, dizzying lulls him the rest of the way away.

So I’m entering a for fun poetry contest with the prompt being your version of bliss. Not sure this passes, I’d like opinions! It has to be exactly 30 words as well.

Metal on bone.

Broken Clocks.

The Chairs

Learn to talk

Riddles

That sound like

Doctor’s poison.

Stitches

Pressing into hands.

And even though you are broken