#cosmic dread

BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP -- “SORRY TO BE A BUZZKILL… BUT WHAT IF YOU DON’T EXIST?”

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Sorry to be a buzzkill again. But you know me. Mr. Humble doesn’t show up to rub your tummy. I show up to slice through your delusions like they owe me rent.

And today’s delusion?

“Of course I exist.” “Of course this is real.” “Of course this isn’t just a dream that’s outlived the sleeper.”

Yeah? Prove it.

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Here’s the thing:

This world doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t exist. Not like this. Not with these constants. Not with this precision.

Do you understand the probability of YOU even having a working cell membrane based on the atomic conditions required?

And yet-- you eat pizza rolls and doomscroll through algorithms like any of this is normal.

What if I told you this wasn’t real?

Not in the Hollywood "we’re in a computer" kind of way. But in the you might just be a memory living through its own echo without knowing it’s over kind of way.

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What if you’re just… a past self, replaying itself. A loop. A snapshot of a soul. Running the tape back with perfect illusion that it’s all happening now.

You wouldn’t know. Because the loop contains all your memories.

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“Preposterous,” you say? “I think, therefore I am,” you say?

Your brain can’t even comprehend true eternity.

Tell me what happened before the first Big Bang. Now tell me what triggered it. Now tell me how many came before that.

Now tell me what came before that.

See? You don’t know. You assume. You build certainty atop vapor and call it science.

But you can’t even stay awake for five days without descending into hallucinated hell.

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📉 STAT: Sleep deprivation causes visual and auditory hallucinations within 72-120 hours.

📉 Another STAT: Subjects deprived of sleep begin confusing dream logic with waking cognition.

📉 Another Fcking Creepy STAT: Witnesses in close proximity to the sleep-deprived sometimes report shared delusions.

---

Yeah. Let that part marinate.

Imagine seeing "things" and hearing voices just by being in close proximity to that person.

There are actually people who’ve claimed to have stayed awake long enough to break the lock on this plane of perception.

And when they did?

Others around them saw it too. External to them. Realer than dreams. Louder than reason.

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So what if this isn’t “your life”? What if this is just the last thing you saw before you ceased to be?

And your brain’s just looping on the ride out. Endlessly. Forever. Believing it’s linear. Believing it’s new.

But it’s not. It’s a cassette tape in a godless VCR stuck on repeat.

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You think your memories mean this is real? That just makes it a better simulation.

You think other people validate your sentience? You can’t even prove anyone else is conscious. All you can do is hope they’re not just projections designed to hold your delusion together.

NPCs that glitch in just enough nuance to seem alive but never go deeper than the script allows.

Ever try to REALLY wake someone up in a dream? They look scared. Or blurry. Or they disappear.

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So… what if this is that dream? The one where your “reality” is scripted, pre-loaded, and ready-made the moment you look for it.

What if the moon only exists when you think about it?

What if your dog has no soul but your memory of him keeps him real?

What if you’re not moving forward but instead falling backward through every version of yourself you’ve ever believed in?

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You wouldn’t know. Because the illusion is complete. It has your memories. Your traumas. Your dreams.

But all of it? Could’ve been injected. A second ago. Last week. Last eternity.

You say you were born?

Who told you that? Your mom? How do you know she’s not part of the set?

You say you slept last night?

How do you know that wasn’t the real world and THIS is the dream you haven’t woken from?

You say “of course I’m real”?

Then why do you panic when it gets too quiet? Why does 3:17 AM feel like a haunted mirror?

Why can’t you remember what it felt like to be born?

Why are you so scared of being alone with no notifications no updates no attention?

Because if this falls apart, so do you.

---

Anyway.

Have a good night. Sleep tight. And if you wake up tomorrow with no memory of this post or too much memory of it then maybe just maybe

You already existed… long enough to forget that you didn’t.

Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

Warning: This post has disrupted timelines, interrupted dreams, and triggered silent breakdowns at 2:43 AM.

They say she has long hands. That’s a lie. She is the hand.

She doesn’t reach out. She pulls in.

📍 Palermo, 1974. A girl named Giulia vanishes between the vines. Three days later, her voice comes back. In the well. No body. Just whispers. “Turn around,” they said she said. They didn't. They left the well open. No one draws water there anymore.

There’s a rule in the old places:

Don’t name the things that wait.

But we did.

Manalonga. “The Long Hand.” But that’s not right. That’s just the shape she wore last century. Before that? She was wind in the curtain. Before that? Milk that soured in the cradle. Before that? The space under your tongue that forgets your mother’s name.

🕷️ She doesn’t hunt. She sleeps where you sleep. If you breathe wrong, she stirs.

She smells like damp wicker and scraped prayers. She doesn’t creak the floorboard. She waits until you step on it again, and it isn’t there anymore.

Mara once drew her in crayon. Stick figure. Too many arms. We burned it. It screamed. The ash spelled something in dialect we don’t speak. But the baby stopped crying. And the dog hasn’t barked since.

You don’t see her face.

You see a shadow where no shadow should be. You see fingernail marks on the inside of glass. You see your reflection, mouthing words you don’t remember learning.

And if you ever find yourself between vineyard and dusk, and there’s a pause— not silence, a pause— like something forgot to breathe?

Don’t run.

She loves running.

She waits for running.

She folds your footprints back into the earth and presses down, gently, until the dirt forgets you ever disturbed it.

📼 We played a reel-to-reel tape backwards from a 1930s Palermo séance. You could hear children laughing where there were none. Then a voice like wet wood splitting:

“I’m not behind you. I’m underneath you.”

The tape snapped. The room stank of vinegar and teeth.

🕯️ The Manalonga doesn’t haunt. She replaces.

First your voice. Then your steps. Then your sleep.

Until your mother swears she tucked you in, but the bed’s just roots and cold breath.

You want Baba Yaga? She’s the warning.

You want the Blair Witch? That’s the trailer.

I made some slightly cuter Eldritch horrors this time.

a thought: the ocean is the existing element of lovecraftian horror in our reality.

i had the thought that thalassophobia can be a specific about the "fear of uncertainty". the fear of the unknowable is basically the focus of lovecraftian horror (by h.p. lovecraft). lovecraftian horror is a horror fiction subgenre that emphasizes the horror of the unknowable or incomprehensible; something much more vast than humanity's existence itself.

if you think about it, people generally fear the ocean because we do not know what's in it; it gives us the feeling of uncertainty. and humanity, in general, hates the knowledge of nothing. the ocean literally gives us nothing. it HAS something, yes, but it's something we cannot see. because if we get the chance to see the ocean's unthinkable, our human mind cannot comprehend such thing, thus why it gives away fear, which can drive someone to their own insanity.

the ocean is a living monster. a creature to fit in our reality that could justify and emphasize the existence of lovecraftian horror—the fear of nothing.

The Band Plays On by Alan Baxter

“The sign said ‘Gulpepper, population 8,000,’ Torsten said. “That’s not a tiny hamlet.”“Did you saw the bit underneath?” Simone asked. “Someone writed it on.”“What bit?”“It said, ‘But the dead out number the living.’—Alan Baxter, “The Gulp” “I saw the body spread on that dank stone,And knew those things which feasted were not men…”—H.P. Lovecraft, “Fungi from Yuggoth” (IV. The…

THE OTHER NINETY-NINE

99 percent of life leaves no fossil record. That means we have proof of only one percent of what’s ever existed. So what the fuck was in the other ninety-nine?

We keep digging for monsters in space when the dirt under our feet is already a crime scene. The Earth has been running life experiments for four billion years, and we showed up after closing time acting like we own the lab. We build museums to our own bones while the real archives are buried under continents we forgot existed.

Start here: Before dinosaurs, before trees, before oxygen reached your brain’s ancestors, the planet’s sky was green. The air was thick with methane, and the oceans were full of iron. Every sunrise looked like rust. You could drown just by breathing. That was normal. That was home for something.

You know what’s horrifying? You are breathing recycled death. Every breath you take contains atoms from everything that ever lived. Statistically, there’s a molecule from Caesar’s last gasp in your lungs right now. Also from a rotting fish, a plague victim, a million forgotten creatures that never got names. You’re haunted by chemistry. Haunting isn’t supernatural. It’s physical continuity.

Life isn’t a miracle. It’s an infection. The first cell didn’t bloom; it invaded. It hijacked energy from raw minerals, turned poison into metabolism, and started cloning itself. That’s the original sin. And it worked so well the planet has never recovered.

You ever hear of the Banded Iron Formations? They’re layers of rock showing when microbes learned to photosynthesize, dumping oxygen into the oceans. That oxygen rusted all the iron in the water, suffocating almost every other organism. The first mass extinction wasn’t an asteroid. It was photosynthesis. The invention of breathing killed the world. So yeah, evolution’s first success story was genocide.

The other ninety-nine percent might not even need sunlight. Scientists found entire ecosystems under the ocean floor -- bacteria living off the planet’s core heat. Some haven’t seen surface light since before multicellular life existed. They eat rock. They fart methane. They reproduce every ten thousand years. That’s not “life.” That’s geological possession.

Here’s another one that sounds fake. In 2013, researchers drilled into the Earth’s crust and revived microbes that had been dormant for 86 million years. They woke up instantly, started metabolizing, like they were just waiting. Eighty-six million years of sleep, and not a single cell forgot what to do. That’s not hibernation. That’s patience.

There are jellyfish that can revert to infancy when injured, regenerating forever. They don’t die. They reset. The ocean has immortality and doesn’t share.

You think the supernatural is weird? Try biology. There’s a parasite called Leucochloridium paradoxum that infects snails and makes their eyestalks pulse like disco lights to lure birds. When the bird eats the snail, the parasite reproduces inside the bird and shits its eggs out for more snails to find. That’s not horror fiction. That’s Tuesday.

Then there’s the immortal flatworm. Cut it in half, and each half grows a new brain. Cut those halves, and they keep going. There are lab colonies of flatworms that have been alive since the 1950s. They’re not individuals. They’re one endless organism distributed across time. That’s what eternity looks like when it doesn’t care about your soul.

And the Earth itself? It’s alive. Not metaphorically. Literally. The planet’s crust moves like muscle tissue. Its magnetic field flips every few hundred thousand years, erasing every compass. During those flips, the atmosphere weakens and radiation floods the surface. Some species vanish. Others mutate. That’s the planet doing a hard reset.

Think extinction is rare? Over 99 percent of all species that ever existed are gone. We are living fossils of a genocide so constant it counts as weather. Your family tree isn’t a tree. It’s a crime scene with one surviving witness.

There’s a fungus that takes over cicadas, replaces their genitals with spores, and makes them mate until they fall apart. They keep singing, keep flying, missing half their body, while spreading infection through sound and touch. The researchers who found it called it “a flying saltshaker of death.” Nature doesn’t do symbolism. It just enjoys accuracy.

And then there’s tardigrades -- microscopic bears that survive vacuum, radiation, freezing, boiling, and space itself. They can dry out completely for decades and come back to life with a drop of water. When the planet ends, tardigrades will still be here. They’ll inherit the ashes.

The other ninety-nine percent of life wasn’t wiped out by evil. It was recycled. The Earth doesn’t delete. It rewrites.

You ever hear of the “Lazarus Taxon”? It’s a term for species thought to be extinct that suddenly reappear in the fossil record or real life. The coelacanth did that. A fish believed extinct for sixty-five million years swam up in 1938 like nothing happened. That’s not a comeback. That’s a time slip.

And you think ghosts are strange?

The ocean floor is littered with “whale falls” -- the corpses of whales that sink and become entire ecosystems. They can sustain life for a century. There are worms that eat nothing but whale bones, covered in green symbiotic bacteria. They have no mouths. No eyes. No gender. They reproduce by sprouting males inside their bodies. A living graveyard with self-contained husbands. That’s romance at the molecular level.

You know what else sounds fake? Your body glows in the dark. Humans emit bioluminescent light that’s too weak for our eyes to see. We are literally dim lanterns pretending to be intelligent. Everything alive leaks light. You’re glowing right now and pretending it means nothing.

Let’s get darker. The Earth hums. Seismologists record it -- an infrasound resonance called the “Earth’s hum.” It’s constant. Even when no earthquakes happen. The planet vibrates like a heartbeat. No one knows exactly why. Some say it’s the ocean’s pressure. Some say it’s atmospheric drag. Some say it’s just memory -- tectonic muscle twitching in its sleep.

There are forests connected underground by mycelium networks, trading nutrients and information. Trees warn each other about insects. They recognize their own offspring and feed them preferentially. A forest is one organism pretending to be many. That’s not spirituality. That’s data transfer. You’re walking through a living internet that invented Wi-Fi before we existed.

Here’s a number that kills religion faster than sin: There are an estimated 10 nonillion viruses on Earth. That’s a one followed by 31 zeros. Almost all of them harmless. Some embedded in your DNA. In fact, eight percent of the human genome comes from ancient viral infections. That means you are partially virus. Your ancestors were infected so thoroughly that the infection became identity. You are viral residue with opinions.

And then there’s the ocean again. The largest known animal migration happens every single night --trillions of organisms rising from the deep to feed and sinking back at dawn. It’s so massive it confuses military sonar. We didn’t discover it until the 1940s because we thought the movement was the seafloor itself. Imagine living on a planet where the ocean surface lifts and falls like lungs while you sleep.

The scariest part of the ninety-nine isn’t the monsters. It’s the silence. Because every horror that could exist already has. And it didn’t need eyes or fire or faith. It just needed time.

There’s a theory that life might have started more than once on Earth. That we might be the third or fourth iteration. Microbial civilizations could have risen, thrived, and died long before our chemistry stabilized. No evidence remains because the record got cooked. Each version of life left ghosts in the genes of the next. You’re not the first draft of humanity. You’re the fifth fanfiction rewrite.

And the sun you worship? It’s temporary. It will expand, boil the oceans, strip the atmosphere, and swallow the planet whole. Everything you love will be reduced to plasma. And still, somewhere in the depths, a microbe might survive, feeding on the molten core until the last photon dies. That’s what endurance looks like without hope.

The other ninety-nine percent of life didn’t vanish. It’s sleeping. Waiting for conditions to tilt back in its favor. When the ice caps melt, ancient bacteria will wake. When the deserts flood, spores will bloom that last saw sky during the Triassic. When humanity burns out, life will shrug, stretch, and keep going. It doesn’t need witnesses.

That’s the real horror. Not monsters under the bed. Monsters under everything. Every rock, every tide pool, every cloud of dust in your living room is alive, dying, or dreaming. You are surrounded by survivors of epochs that never included you. And they do not care that you’re here.

So what the fuck was in the other ninety-nine? Everything that didn’t need you. Everything that will outlive you. Everything that already has.

Reblog if you understand that extinction isn’t the end -- it’s just maintenance. Reblog if you realize you’re part of the ninety-nine now, not the one.

More drops, more damage: https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble

Reminder: The subconscious always hears the truth first. The joke lands. The bones confess.

[AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:99 -- GEOLOGICAL MEMORY RESTORED]

MINDFUCK: THEY WARNED YOU ABOUT LIVING FOREVER

They warned you about living forever. You ignored them. Laughed in their faces. Told them you’d conquer time.

They said immortality wasn’t a gift -- it was a sentence. You told them that’s what cowards say when they’re afraid of greatness.

They tried philosophy. Told you you’d outlive everyone you loved. You said love was a distraction.

They tried ethics. Told you your mind wasn’t built to withstand eternity. You smirked.

They tried fear. Told you you’d see things that don’t belong in sanity. Things older than gods. Things that blink when galaxies die.

You scoffed. Called it “cosmic bedtime stories.”

But time kept going. And now you’re here.

The Earth isn’t the Earth anymore. The moon cracked open 300 years ago. No one fixed it. The sun is pale and mean. The wind howls in numbers. You haven’t seen a mammal in decades. Not even yourself.

You can’t die. But you can rot. And you have. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. A living fungus of who you used to be. Trying to remember what warmth meant. Trying to remember why you wanted this.

You belong to no era. No one remembers your language. You outlived names. You outlived gravity. You outlived meaning.

The universe has changed physics three times since the last time you cried. And now crying feels like a punchline to a joke you no longer understand.

You told them you wanted to see everything. You said that like it was brave. Now you stare out at a universe that doesn’t blink anymore. A black sky that yawns open like a wound and whispers new elements into existence.

And none of them are love.

You told them death was for the weak. But you were wrong. Death was release. Death was mercy. Death was the right to belong to a time.

Now you drift through centuries like trash stuck in a wind tunnel. You live in museums made of regret, haunted by the bones of everything you outlasted.

You are not wise. You are not powerful. You are not a legend.

You are a rotting god in a broken simulation. And you have no one left to blame but yourself.

🧠 More scrolltraps 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

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