#surrealwriting

<meta anomaly-type="urban-possession"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CITIES::LIVING_ORGANISMS::URBAN_HORROR" EFFECT="scientific dread, surreal cadence, subconscious possession" </script>

🌆 THE CITY BREATHES YOU

The Cities are alive, you know. They ache, they breathe, they eat you slow. The lights at night — they watch, they wait. Every traffic jam a feeding plate.

The rooftop party, a human stew. The laughter masks what the windows knew. The glassy towers hum in pain. They trade your hours for their gain.

Concrete veins pump tar through streets. You are the blood. The car. The meat. The subway groans — a stomach ache. Every step you take, the sidewalks quake.

Skyscrapers lean to hear your thought. Every secret’s already bought. Billboards don’t sell, they hypnotize. Neon is just the City’s eyes.

📊 Scientific note, but never confessed: Cities trigger cortisol, leave you depressed. Noise pollution spikes your stress. Blue light strips your sleep to less.

Urban heat islands raise your heart. Air particulates tear lungs apart. But still you smile, “the skyline’s great.” The skyline smiles back — and eats your fate.

The City doesn’t end at dawn. It licks the air when you’ve moved on. Apartments whisper. Alleys moan. No one really lives alone.

Because here’s the truth: you don’t reside. You’re just a cell in something wide. The City isn’t where you stay. It’s what consumes you — day by day.

🧠 Reblog if the skyline ever felt like it was breathing. 💀 Reblog if your chest tightened walking home alone. 🩸 Reblog if you know the City isn’t dead concrete — it’s living meat.

🐺 Reminder: Cities don’t need your permission. They already wrote your obituary in streetlight code.

📢 If you want more writing that turns survival into scripture and skylines into nightmares, step inside: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

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Sometimes, late at night, when everything has gone still and quiet—the witching hour, the moment of truth—you can hear my house take a breath. 

I lay there, coiled tight and small beneath my pilled blanket, clutching my stuffed pink owl—waiting.

The inhale comes softly—barely a whisper among the creaks and groans of the old settling wood. 

I brace under my cloak, knowing by the order of routine that the next part is far worse.

The exhalation slaps like an open hand, slamming every door in the aging house, rattling the stained windowpanes, and latching every unwilling latch. 

I was no longer a human. Instead, I had transformed into an insignificant meatball. 

The veiled covering above me shook with fear and adrenaline, matching my panic and laughing at its name: comforter. 

The entrance to my room was locked and blocked, and I couldn’t run fast enough even if my feet started flying. 

So I remain, motionless, underneath my discomfort, waiting for merciful sleep to take me and the lull of morning to arrive with beckoning applause.

Until then, the floors will continue to shake with residual vibration. The smudged glass in the window twitches every few minutes. And the door stays sealed.

A million words are dancing at the tip of my brain's tongue. A luminous trove of unspoken treasure raging behind dusty curtains of fading pink—contained madness, detected distance. 

Felt trees and plastic buttons; shiny dreams and youthful masks.

The realization that you don’t know what you look like when you’re not wearing one—a protective layer of nothingness, adaptable to any surrounding—a chameleon of time. 

The words roll like marbles through your mind, tapping into each corner as if knocking lightly at your locked doors and rising walls. 

Don’t speak. Remain enshrouded in the nightfall of your imagination. Slink wordlessly into the shadows you’ve created, your imagination rising like toxic fog on a sinking sea.

How are we to grow, when we don’t allow ourselves water?

How are we to sing, if we don’t use our voice?

Jump from the highest tip of the furthest moonbeam—away from the craven incubus that tires your dreams, into the froth of stars that usher your hope.

Dotting the onyx canvas like misplaced fireflies, they hold shelter in their broadening forms, taking us in with the gentle hush of a closed wing.

One day, I was walking along a narrow path in the forest. It was dusk. The sun’s rays barely peeked over the tree line. Was it morning? Had I been out all night? Or was it night now? Had I wandered through the whole day?

A growl echoes in the distance, and fear washes over me. The sound was close, but these trees—they’re unfamiliar. These woods, unknown. What kind of beasts might lurk here? My pace quickens, and I dare not look back.

For the longest time, I could only look ahead, walking toward the dimming sky. I think I was uphill. At some point, my steps slowed—or maybe I just grew accustomed to the rhythm. And at this slower pace, I paused. The noise—what was it? A growl? I can’t remember if it was a “rrghf” or a “whusf,” or if it was even there at all.

I could look up, but it was just gray sky. I could look down, but it was only pebbly dirt. The path stretched before me—empty, endless. And then, I did something I hadn’t thought of before—I stopped. When I stopped, I looked back. Why hadn’t I thought to do that before?

Behind me, it was the same. Rocks and dirt. Sky and… not much else. So I sat. And thought. I wonder why I’d never thought about that before, either. Then I realized: I had just begun to think. It’s silly to expect a thought before thinking. But what is a thought, really?

I fell into the hole of my mind, a deep, long moment of spiraling. Then, I rose to my feet. I would keep walking. So far, the path had done me no harm. But after a moment, my feet began to ache. My back hurt. Keeping my body upright felt like a bet against myself. So I paused. I forgot that was something I could do. Maybe I had thought about other things too hard—maybe I’d forgotten.

I paused. Sat again. And thought, just a bit. I would hate to think so much that I forgot to get up again.

But thinking one thought is like thinking a thousand. My thoughts become questions, and my mind answers with more questions. Now, I worry about thinking too much—and questioning too much. And then a thought bursts through the noise.

What if I’m worrying too much, too?

I clutch onto the idea of standing up again. I hold tight to the thought of walking—just a leisurely stroll. Walks in the forest are supposed to clear my mind. I squeeze the thought, refusing to let it go. Thought after thought, question after question, they ring in my mind. Surely, they can’t all be mine.

Some thoughts are shouting now. Fighting. Who is fighting? Enough! I jump to my feet and scream. I’d never thought to speak before. The forest had always been so quiet. So serene. I never dared interrupt its silence. But now, I realize—the scream didn’t come from a thought. It came from all the thoughts. The chattering, the warring. I had to let some of them out.

And for a moment, it works. The buzzing in my head dulls. But an unfortunate side effect: I notice the silence was never in the forest—it was just in me. The buzzing, the hum, it fills my ears again. It won't leave.

I keep walking. Miserable. The thoughts keep buzzing. My feet still hurt, though I hadn’t noticed before. What else have I forgotten while wrapped up in all these little thoughts? I swat at them, frustrated.

An angry thought claws its way through my mind. Where am I walking to? It’s just the beginning. The first of a long stream of furious thoughts. Too angry for my mind. So I let them out, hoping they’ll shrink.

“What the fuck! Where the fuck am I? Is this some sick joke? Huh? How did I get here? How far am I from home? Where could I possibly be walking to for this fucking long?!”

The words rush out in a torrent. And these angry thoughts—they’re different. The ones still buzzing in my head are smaller, quieter. But these—these come from deep inside me. The words are like wind, rushing from my lungs. They lift my arms, then slam them back to my sides. I’m startled. I didn’t think to move my arms.

The wind moves again, lifting my arms, but this time I pull back, protesting. And my foot steps back. I hadn’t thought to do that either. Another step back. Testing. A third step, and then—my angry air trips me! It hits my shins, knocking me to the ground.

I land flat on my face. In hindsight, I should’ve braced myself. The echo of the thought rings in my ears:

You should have…

A roar comes from behind me. I can’t tell if it’s the angry air or the beast from before, but I steady myself and take off down the path. The rocks scrape my feet. The branches lash at me. But I keep running. I run until my lungs burn. I run until I can’t run anymore.

I stop. Standing still, gasping for breath. The buzzing thoughts, the angry air—they’re still there. But the breeze has softened, turned into a cool, soothing wind. I welcome it. I bask in its chill, grateful for the relief from the heat of my fear and exhaustion.

I stand there, motionless, for a long moment. Trying not to think. Instead, I witness. Stillness is practice, I guess. I’m not used to it. I’m still so long that eventually, I sink to the ground and lay down. I hadn’t thought to lay down before.

And as I lie in the path, eyes on the sky, I see the stars.

He said to me with a nervous quoth, it pertained to screeching in the ears of many, though those with the persistence to remain did no such thing - instead a lowly intelligence was required

And so I trekked and travelled and turned alone. They who follow me refer to themselves, though I am alone.