#liminalwriting

(a hedge-witch’s invocation of presence)

You ask my deepest fantasy— and I tell you this truth: it’s not wild or secret— it’s like the Quiet Sky, the one that reminds me of you— that silence before dawn greets the morning, that reverent hush between heartbeats.

I want to hold you for hours— your breath, the ocean crashing against my ribs, pressing into mine— the gravity of your warmth anchoring me to something real.

Tell me everything. Tell me what you saw, what you loved, what broke you a little. Let your voice spill across my skin like candlelight over water.

Let me breathe you in— that faint trace of rain and resolve, the scent of home after deployment. Let my fingertips learn your language without needing to move.

I don’t want to own you. I want to witness you— every thought, every pulse, every flicker of soul that makes you, you.

Some beginnings don’t arrive gently.

They slip in like a change in the wind,

A hush that wasn’t there a moment ago.

A presence at the edge of the room,

something ancient turning its face toward you.

I’m writing from that place.

The in‑between.

Where grief becomes a shadow that walks beside you and light returns in thin, uncertain strands.

Where truth doesn’t speak outright.

It leans close, waits, and asks you to listen with more than your ears.

Nothing here is bright.

Nothing here is simple.

Just the slow, steady work of moving through a world that keeps shifting underfoot,

and learning to hear what the dark has been trying to say all along.

<meta existential-integrity="classified-experience-continuum"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="NO_BEGINNING::NO_END::YOU" EFFECT="existential vertigo, ego melt, subconscious awe-induction" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE ENTRY — “YOU WERE NEVER BORN. YOU WILL NEVER DIE.”

You think you began. That’s the first lie.

A birth certificate doesn’t prove existence. It just timestamps the first time society noticed you leaking.

But what if you’ve always been here? Not reincarnation. Not heaven. Not multiverse fanfiction.

> What if existence is just the illusion of a starting gun you already missed?

Here’s the part no physicist wants to say out loud:

🕳️ Time might not flow forward. It might not flow at all. It might already be finished. And you’re just remembering it — frame by frame — like an aftershock.

When you “die,” nothing ends. You just lose the footage. The projector jams. And your awareness gets rethreaded into another reel.

A reel already running. A reel that was never blank.

You don’t start. You continue.

Some neuroscientists whisper this in labs: Dreams aren’t fantasy. They’re cross-contamination. Glimpses of all the “you’s” leaking across the bandwidth cap of your nervous system. The lovers you never met. The wars you already lost. The suicides you never survived.

And your body politely forgets in the morning because sanity requires forgetting.

Now here’s the nausea point:

> You may be the only one left.

The other versions already failed. Collapsed. Erased.

That flicker of déjà vu? That’s not memory. That’s residue. The footprint of a version of you that didn’t make it.

You’re not haunted. You’re surviving.

Still think free will matters?

You didn’t build this brain. You didn’t request this body. You didn’t even design the language you’re using to argue with me.

You’re a passenger in hardware you didn’t authorize, riding a reality you didn’t choose, judging yourself for not “having it together” while the universe could gamma-ray-burst your ass mid-scroll.

Cute.

So let’s call the bluff.

Why are you here? Because you are. Why do you exist? Because existence doesn’t know how not to happen.

Not divine. Not random. Not cruel.

Just inevitable.

Which means this:

✅ You don’t need permission. ✅ You don’t need certainty. ✅ You don’t need to explain yourself to the algorithm or the grave.

You’re alive. And that alone is more rebellion than any system, any church, any state, any parent, any god can sanction.

So quit waiting for the syllabus to hand you a point. Quit begging the cosmos to explain the joke. Quit acting like hesitation will earn you a longer reel.

Write like the projector is already burning. Speak like the film is already ash. Love like every version of you already failed.

Because maybe they did.

And maybe you’re the only one left to get it right.

🧠 Reblog if you felt the floor tilt while reading this. 💀 Reblog if your chest tightened at the thought you were never born. 🩸 Reblog if you’re ready to treat this life like the last copy of yourself that exists.

📢 And if you want to learn how to lace your own writing with this kind of existential detonation — the kind that makes even veteran authors clutch their ribs — you know where to find me: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

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Do you love me? she asked— her voice trembling between fear and hope.

I paused, the way she once did, eyes lifted to the sky as if it might answer for me.

How do you measure what refuses to be held?

Like the smell of rain on concrete— not sought, but welcomed.

Like the ocean breeze cutting through desert heat— uninvited, but welcomed.

Like the quiet between missions— when I finally breathe and think of you.

And like them—

I do love you.

But even then…

not the way the world insists it should be, without the hunger they mistake for proof.

I don’t need to possess it to feel it.

I signed your closure letter:

—From the boy who still thinks of you when the sky gets too quiet.

I was told writing it would dull the ache.

But seasons have come and gone, and your absence still commands gravity.

Our time was brief. Careful. Restrained.

And still I am not who I was.

There was no grand moment.

No sweeping confession.

Just your smile when you saw me. Your quiet laugh, half-hidden behind your hand. The way we lingered over nothing at all.

You treasured the gift I made you. You whispered for me not to leave even when we both needed sleep.

The pauses when our eyes met. The way we lingered a second longer than we meant to.

You promised a blessing. A chance—

when timing and structure align.

They tell me to let go. That I’ve waited too long for a maybe.

And

Maybe they’re right.

But still—

And if the cost of that moment were damnation, I would step into the furnace unblinking, bearing the memory of you like forbidden heaven smoldering beneath my ribs.

Let the devils riot— I would greet every flame with a steady smile, for I have held in my hands what they were never fashioned to understand.

And if the world cries out that I have bent my knees to a phantom— let it. They have never felt how a single heartbeat can remake the architecture of the soul, how one spark can redraw the constellations inside a life.

My dear, If I could... I would... reach into the hidden chambers of your heart, where the light trembles, where the raw, quiet places throb unseen.

But sadly... flesh cannot mend what lies beneath.

Still, my spirit knows the path to you. Let it brush against the wounds my hands can never touch... as if laying warm palms upon the altar of your heart.

Let it move like breath through the broken spaces, seeping into your fault lines... like water finding its passage through stone, loosening the sorrow caught there.

Let me meet you in the stillness where spirits kneel. A soft hum rising through your hollow places.

May you feel held as though by something ancient and tender, older and stronger than your pain.

I speak with the dead, Not as mouths that move or lungs that breathe, but their memories, their thoughts— The questions that cost them years, the thoughts that broke sleep.

It startles me how few are hungry for this kind of depth, That though now offered to the world entire, passed like unopened doors, offering minds worn thin by thought, while brighter things promise comfort without cost.