#dark reality

The snow muffles all sound, it's eerily quiet as I breathe

My breath rhythmic despite shivering,

Snowflakes feel like needles on my skin

But no red only never ending white

Peace, silence, innocence

I close my eyes, my shivers finally subsiding

Tsukasa Saitoh | Dark Reality from King's Field IV

I'm sorry for the suddenness, but apparently I really enjoyed writing down my thoughts. Previously, for some reason, I considered this to be the lot of very lonely people who had no one to share them with, and even when I really wanted to, but there was no one to tell, I still refused to write them down, not wanting to admit my loneliness. Now, I don't think so for a long time, on the contrary, it has become very convenient and pleasant, it helps to organize thoughts and get rid of the intrusive noise in my head.

And so... I really like to read, sometimes I do it very slowly, sometimes very quickly, depending on my inner state and external factors. And now, I have been captivated and fascinated by one book by John Fowles: "The Collector" (at the time of writing this text, I am still in the process of reading), I have read most of it, but not all...and even so, I already have clear thoughts about her....especially the main characters. Fred and Miranda...predator and prey...the collector and his exhibit...

but they do have something in common... their attachment to specific people.

Fred is obsessed with Miranda, wanting to possess her like a thing (her mere presence is enough for him).

And Miranda is very attached to her mentor friend.

Both of these characters feel affection and even a kind of love for the objects of their adoration (in Fred's case, very sick and perverted), but they are fundamentally different from each other. If Fred, although he is trying to do something to get closer to Miranda, but in his essence his desires are unlikely to be sincere, in my opinion, he is more pretending to be active, trying to match her level, but in fact, he is not at all interested, unnecessary and incomprehensible...and most importantly, he doesn't sincerely try to understand and become a 'better person' in order to truly get closer to her. He does not see the person for him, she is just an exhibit, yes, he, of course, says that he understands her, feels a connection with her, but in fact he is not sincerely trying to understand and feel her. He hears her, but he DOESN'T LISTEN to her. He's not really trying to get close to her, to get on par with her, to genuinely delve into her world and experience her... He does not understand and does not want to understand her, she is precisely that beautiful and incomprehensibly ideal object that excites his sick and limited mind (primarily his family), he only simulates, pretends that he is doing something, but in fact does not delve into and does nothing. He doesn't feel it, and most importantly, he doesn't want to feel it. For him, she is just an image that he carefully built up in his head and which collapsed as soon as he saw that she was... just a man, with his own streams, thoughts, feelings, advantages and disadvantages. He does not want and did not want to perceive and accept her as a REAL person.

At the same time, Miranda, zha, also feels sympathy and affection for her mentor friend. However, unlike Fred, she is really trying to become a better person, and if at first to get closer to her mentor, then later, for herself. She doesn't just hear him, she does what she LISTENS to, analyzes, delves into, and tries to change. She sees him... sees him as a human being. She does not deny his vices, advantages and disadvantages, accepts them and at the same time does not belittle herself, does not justify her actions and behavior (as Fred does).

It seems to me that this is not just a story about Fred's sick mind, it is a story about two attachments. Attachment is a broken human mind that does not want to change and accept reality. And attachment is an ordinary mind that wants to become a better person without being afraid to accept reality for what it is... beautiful, dirty, gentle, cruel...but that doesn't make it any less beautiful.

- Words From A Neurodivergent Survivor, A True Story

May 9th–10th, 2025.

Somewhere between the ashtray olympics and sidewalk grief theatre, I respawned.

Not healed. Not whole. Just… alive.

I don’t know how to explain what happened, and I probably never will.

So here’s the redacted version, coded for public consumption and private screams:

– Dodge the fists.

– Dodge the pepper spray.

– Dodge your own sobs.

– Wrap the charger cord around your ventilation tube, not out of drama, but because it’s the only way to silence the grief machine's loudness to not summon the Grendel.

- Handed pleasant abandonment with a whiff capsaicin.

– Be gifted a sidewalk as your sanctuary and your things as a free yardsale for your legacy.

– Watch your only companion—furry, small, terrified—die quietly in your lap while the world just keeps spinning around you. Perfected the art of being reluctantly invisible on that sidewalk.

– Get rescued by the same hand that held the chaos. Again. And again. And again.

– Get handed another woman’s life, in the form of a purse grenade, like it was interchangeable.

– Feel a rage so patient it waits for a red light before exploding.

– Get back in your body long enough to reclaim your soul on the way out.

I survived. Somehow.

Wade Wilson didn't.

I carry that moment like a haunted charm in my chest.

I have trauma soup sloshing in my skull.

My nervous system is a powerline in a hurricane.

They’ll say:

“But you look fine.”

“You're so strong."

“You're so naive.”

And I’ll say:

I am. I am all of that. And also broken in places you’ll never see.

This isn’t a cry for help.

This is a survivor’s growl.

A testimony for the neurospicy, late-diagnosed, system-abandoned, emotionally flammable crew.

I survived that hotel.

I survived that body.

I survived them.

And if I disappear tomorrow, let this be known:

I screamed through the hole,

and the void blinked first.

The void is watching.