something disappears, giving no indication it will ever reappear
a barely viewed—though not lost, just unusually overlooked—creepypasta is written in highly unique and developed prose never before seen within any language, let alone english. a decade and a bit after its publication online, a horror youtuber makes a compilation of great-but-lesser-known creepypastas, in the wake of which this creepypasta is rather met with derision as a vague, poor facsimile of joycean idiosyncrasies. staunch supporters of the creepypasta instead argue that even a slightly more meticulous reader would quickly pick up on its debt to the bleak humor of louis-ferdinand céline within the typical monstrous ontologies and timeloops of yesteryears slenderverse series, and as a result the re-postulated gnosticism of late philip k. dick as well; but that this is exactly why the creepypasta has been met with so much derision, that no one who reads creepypastas this intently cares much for other literature and vice versa. a nascent literary movement syncretizing both the shining moments and the converted sins of creepypastas (this recently excavated creepypasta finding itself a sort of quarry), and other works by long-dead modernist writers shows promise on account of its acclaim from other artists with more social capital; a well-known american poet notes of one of the first significant works from this sparse group of writers that those who refuse to praise it “may content themselves with a place in the lower intellectual orders”.
— Well yes, well if everything revolves around the respective object it merely appears to be socialization is subjugation and rejection and a generally hostile position of the world is affirmed. And people commit suicide to unload a lifelong tension, but the tension is offloaded onto others once the act is through with, but people are not people and are ontologically conducive to the worlds position.
R had been thinking about suicide for a while now, in the manner of which he thought a philosopher might, though he only knew Plato and he knew he only knew Plato, only from the passing echo through the wall of an adjacent room in which his sister was talking to his parents. What he gathered now was of an illusional world, deliberately antagonistic towards him. He didn’t know this but it was like what Bachelard said, that non-knowing is not a form of ignorance but a difficult transcendence of knowledge, but it was still non-knowing. Now his conceptualization of suicide which had remained in a state of metacognitive passivity had underflowed into activity, if only of a gestural kind.
The village in which he resided was bisected into quarters by a provincial highway and another perpendicular road. It was masqueraded as something less hypnotizing by two patches of grass that flanked the highway and one dividing it in the middle, running from one end to the other, on account of a philanthropist who was also now dead. R walked along the southernmost strip.
— Do you, a passerby coming in his direction though on the sidewalk, really believe all that?
— You don’t know Plato...
— I don’t think you do!
— I don’t trust you...
— No one subscribed to something so unfalsifiable would. Do you not feel you are construing your suicidality into the vain attribute or attributes of an actor?
Who says that about anyone...these people...—you’re trying to kill me right now, leading me into these sinks of cognition.
— But if you were serious would you not fully commit? like, not just hope you trip onto the road, not just hope that a strong enough impulse to lunge onto it comes? The only object you’re revolving around signifies a desire for help.
The passerby walked away, and it was R who felt the malice seeping out this persons pores, though importantly it was now R who felt.
R had had music playing but it and the short-term memory of which were now two—or maybe one was the ideal of the other—of those aforementioned vain attributes, so he turned left onto the sidewalk and then after a bit turned all the way right towards a gas station across the street. The pines that towered over it were complete silhouettes against the cloudless sunset, as were the highway, the haybales, and the fields upon which they found themselves resting at a more stable condition.
Inside and aside from the cashier was another girl, who R had been intending to catch up with. R had recently discovered a film that was also primarily about the platonic relationship between two people that on the surface appeared similar to theirs, and had decided he wanted to watch this film to see how well he identified with it; however, R couldn't decide whether he wanted to watch it before or after meeting up, for if he watched it after it might create some sort of critical distortion that would compel him to identify with the film entirely—he probably would anyway but he deliberately chose to ignore this—but if he watched it before, it would create an emotional distortion that might’ve been conducive to a level of metacognition that would acutely distance themselves from the girl. Watching it both before and after like a superpermutation in which they could weigh both watchings was completely out of the question. In these iterative acts of deduction he precluded ever watching the film, inextricably linking her to the film, rendering the act of meeting her again a reminder of the movie in the manner of an involuntary traumatic memory, and so he dispelled any consideration of any of it from his mind. The actual content of the film was completely unassimilable into the framework of their dynamic and would’ve had no bearing on his perception, regardless of temporal position.
— You should really take a good look at the sunset out there, R told her now with a smoggy air of unenthusiasm and awkwardness.
— Probably more unreal for you than I!
— ...What do you mean by that...
— I’m colorblind. Tell me, holding a bottle, — is this gray or gold?
— Oh, ohh right yes that’s gold, I’m sorry, I-
— Haha, yea it’s okay. Hey, do you ever get the feeling that in public spaces such as this you could be standing next to a person who’s just been through such a pivotal moment of their life despite their delayed reaction or outright refusal to display emotion, conscious or unconscious?
— Are you going to tell me how I’ll die.
— By a cougar, pushing open the front door with her back now as to continue the conversation though it would not continue, — tonight, so savor that!
urgghhhhhhh [18-something] The ghost has flatlined downwestways. BACK 2 square one [Peace sign] Holla holla ☡ Mademoiselle Seroquail and her amazing band of talking parrots perform for us Smokestack Lightning...stellar! Luster lion, spring manurtherly, no I could never ever be a football player. Mnemosyne! Cool faux-undrama. O sourceress how ashgl back in studio, nobles crest jest vest vrest vtech Moscow, chocolicked mink ever since I arrived I've felt you croculating my pantoramic bas relief of cockfighting from the Khmer Empire, 12th/13th century. It comes up and out now against my wishes, excrescences like starfield caked on the rustic floor, oh don't you come up now asking what it is (oh that'd be the adhesion below my navel in the here-and-now), hopping on the bus to the mall now and getting off and on a dozen times, they're sending someone I've once known out, last seen him in Subway just after grade 7 flabbergasted at the length and color of my hair, in a rocket perpendicular to the curvature of the earth and wrangling it back straight down. He think it a ride, he will never know why, he will never learn the secret (probably known mine). Demagogic pundulator down to all hell for a basement predicated upon what's easily misinterpreted as a discursive diceroll: now's bandoliered in the backseat of a car. Like the barren branches stabbing the sky bleeding purple he wishes to be wounded and thereafter sutured by the freezing winds figure I should tell her, I will be going for a walk and thus not be present so, immediately at least, but I stand on my principles more than I walk atop asphalt, oh my brand spankin' new—! perennial (evergreen?_ nightmare Yes you could even see it with, your eyes closed the night rolling in out of the apartment window. Even in Saskatoon, church environment ￬ around...Antiquity mentions famous beds ["All the suffering gets done by the ones we leave behind"]
Unnap. Stared at the ceiling trying to hallucinate last night's sky and the now-azure of the day, and the phone rang. "Come over! We're heading out to the bar..." etc. Oh, to have seen the ivory maestro at the anhedonair, oh, Kyron—shit—socialization is a game so recursively contrived most go a whole life without ever realizing and I like to minimize my participation as much as possible, even if it brings me to the cusp of insanity, even at a funeral people will ask you questions (are you doing OK? etc.) they already know the answer to, what a futile attempt at evading rudeness!..but the potential incident to retell or the usual story of a previous incident is sometimes rewarding. His place is only a short walk away anyway. Cool faux-undrama. Guinness challenge!
I saw Kyron across the street and ran up to him to his surprise, as I hadn't bothered returning his call. He's got a screw or two loose, always keeping a neat collection of knives and pistols on the coffee table in his living room. I can see it in my head, smallest-left to largest-right. I kicked a pebble onto the road.
"Were you a soccer player?" he asked. I guess it was something about the way I kicked it, with the side of my foot as opposed to with my toes, and sure, I was once, but it's nothing I like to think about beyond the few-and-far-between cute image e.g. us, pouring Powerade over ourselves at the golden hour, the trees beginning to die, our parents stopping at the Dairy Queen drive-thru after every game. And one of the other players, we, in the oh-so-early twilight of Canadian winter we would wander the locker-flanked middle school halls in whichever direction, up and down staircases, through passages half-devoid of fluorescent light, detouring around locked doors, staring out at all the lit houses and stores across the block and over the city.
"No," I answered.
A trio of geese flanked our path. The ringing and clanging of a chain against a wooden fence...swiiingaliiing! We were locked in the undulating counterpoint of deep wonderstanding, steppeing aught fur an operatunity...en chants to get it rätt.
---
Swathes of song, talk, motion, pink. Spigot Pinot Grigio, this one doesn't taste as good as the other one...Bujotoon, Cobi, FADYO, Soyuz, Hellas...cigarette smoke and of, unrelated, dusky brown...the snacks ran the whole froth gamut, and so we barely touched ours. Gabe reached over his shoulder for a View-Master. All the slides had the color grading of an old Polaroid and more significantly an almost comically large halftone texture, though it was part of the printing and magnification processes in tandem; not some artificial aesthetic afterthought as the size of the ink dots might've suggested: A cart on the white track of an amusement park ride against the Gulf of Mexico.
Now, onto a second slide, further zoomed in: 2 planes tangled in twisted track. Gestures of metal.
Gabe put the stereoscope down on the table and told it all, "Some middle-aged baldy Henry Dean Thierry (how did he know?) faked the amusement park, it was all indoors, they've done such a thing in Edmonton, but some disillusioned peer of his behind the scenes used all the budget for an airport they forcefully cancelled with not a trumpet tap of a fanfare. You know, to create this park, but the frauds forgot to re-allocate it or something? I'm no accountant. But nobody knew it was indoors! And Thierry elaborated how, including clouds made out of some experimental aerosol and one thermostat to control global temperature, constant 23 degrees celcius. But the fraud didn't bother really hiding it, maybe partly because of the budget or lack thereof rather, it was attached to a standard maintenance building, and one day 2 little kids came across it and attempted to turn it down. Some lady pushed them away from it, but just, completely, lost her marbles then and there! Put her laptop on the ground and started showing her vlogs, recording a new one before blowing her brains out in that spot in the middle of the crowd that had now formed. The park permanently closed after—because people just can't stand the indoors!"
Like with teeth one has a lifetime set of feats of abstract sense. The drinks then came. The bartender told me, "A Sazerac has always been made with whiskey, it was a Cajun invention, but then some hipster came around in the last decade or so and reinvented it using Absinthe," or something to that effect. I really didn't want to be here any longer.
I engaged in a little provocation, yanking their chains towards a place resembling sincerity. "If we assume there is a singular concrete material reality from which all our personal subjective realities and perceptions are derived, a model of what of actual reality is important and pertains to us and nothing more, nothing less, no single person can actually grasp the totality of the world and not even in a large group, we can only deduce it and only partly still from the conjunctions and disjunctions of all our perceptions. People with congruent personalities and interests tend to gravitate towards one another, so between more closely related people the experience in question may as well be the same for the two, but as the two parties grow more disparate in their conditions, there grows a wall of obfuscation proportional to this level of disparity that transforms the one party's experience into something more intelligible to the other party—but this transformation of course necessitates a misconstruing of it as the actual essence of the experience would be increasingly unintelligible to someone with increasingly different environmental, social, and psychological conditions. Consider two people: one is dopaminergically screwed, plagued by visual snow their entire life, or pseudohallucinations since at least late adolescence. The other, though the former may experience this as well, feels as if things merely happen to them, rather than them being able to take the reins of life, like life were a surface too slippery to grip onto out of a lack of gear, maybe experiential illiteracy. Both contend that people are what constitute life, that material interactions are mediated by and through others. Both are introverts. However, the former can't be sure anything else is real if they can tell that the minutiae of their perception, only made salient by their errancy, are unreal. The ever-present perceptual wall of obfuscation seems to become the effect of the social wall of obfuscation, and like the latter, comes to believe that they are also moored to others like a prisoner shackled to a wall. The two may agree, bond over this final assertion, but as soon as they begin to introspect on what it's constituted of for each party respectively, they will quickly discover they are both essentially incongruent. You can imagine how much worse it is when your basic personalities clash!"
I tapped the table with both my hands as I pushed myself up, and dashed out intent on getting home as quickly as I could [20:34] just to have encountered the bartender again on my street! (Kyron already knew me as the type to leave without a word, or with many rather, and as such took no offense. I could pay him back later if need be). He starts, "OH-it's just a coincidence! I usually would have kept going down that path just down there (pointed around my back but still faced him), all the way to where it turns into a gravel road, but the snow becomes far too deep and without any prior footprints with which to tread carefully inside, I figure it’d better to just turn here at this walkway between that avenue and this street, but I see now that you also live here (him: oh that sounds bad), not like that! I mean, it's just a complete coincidence. I like to walk in a purposefully roundabout way home, take a new path each time and see new things otherwise it feels more like a grating job, like, you know, the manual washing of glasses! All different sizes and shapes, really...really! no harm intended.”
"Why, of course! You just happened to be walking along the identical path as I, shoes caked in identical snow, your trudging-through at an identical pace, which you have my footsteps to thank me for by the way."
"Why are you acting so strange? You act like you don't even know me!"
WHYYYYYYYwhywhywhy yeah, right behind me...he actually went off the other way about now! At the end of the street is a wooden fence in front of a townhouse complex; on the fence is a rectangular yellow double-arrow road sign, it was as if the street had gone further at one point but was sutured off. Just before the fence was a car, black, in the process of being hotboxed. I was immediately stricken with deja vu—no scratch that surely this has all occurred before, what with the now-near-pitch-black sky, the snow-blanketed asphalt, this glossy sedan, the roundabout path here. Another car pulled up behind me (Bartender!!!
Tailwinds Versailles, ritratto panic murmured
All the way to Sanssouci. Demagogic
Could it not be, that our blood tastes the same, that we merely gesture towards greatness?
flicker
They were kept on an embroidered plaque for visual observationno error in our time has leaked through your cracks what a breath this moment has/.
Souffrance and everything inbetwixt the dancing Grizztlebella fencing up the steep banks I love the spring, errant smells fester for short whiles, of petrichor, gasoline, lavender, freshly cut grass, smoke, the last of which as errant the rumor that, if a mere prediction error, entailed a stroke or a seizure, whichever one it is its nothing anyone would like to think about [Doll-almighty, you'll never get anything like you-know-what]. Behind the apartments, down the red dirt, opposite the urban deer as cautious as you, the sky's a Petri dish Match In A Hay Bale And Bacteria In A Petri Dishquotes quotes museumgiftshop quotes quotes hapless quotes quotes underregarded quotes dismissed quotes repressive quotes nerveendangering quotes quotes charmingly quotes laundered quotes pluckily quotes hopeless quotes prone quotes affixed quotes hardcore, and gnossiennes Errythings my fault theatre) left eye SPLAT into his curved improvisatory slurry BDO 이라고 No. 125609215 quiescence through thunder and land簟礥遫㔖㇇ᘯ푝툰Ung thư giai đoạn cuối của Mike Tyson쎦꧗ꫲ䜵涹꘩祰屰獼㿐迶畫KRSHHHHHHHHddddtragic new patek emotional model Even with guns out for fun Oneclick纷繁Takeyouthere maybe develop a fuzzy set before an inscrutable fog of dread, monoculture of compulsory desire, Let them bind sight sense sensation, beyond human condition, hors-d'oeuvres, wurde von den Kritikern recht gut, light leaks, always the iktsuarpok. Like it? Vote! More like, the crozier and the pen, the author and the work, and the car and the cliff, the public and the private, what's real and what's fake, abstract is the face of what's impulse and what's fate. Lord Dan Dragon Lord Dan over school en FIRE over Fourth Street white eye 01 day white CITA: Bein north 507 2820 VRaw He d Cabal best embodies and alternatively return home misfold Natural bait and thai hair EXTRA SEX ack to non hand the arrival of the fish Televisiodad Idk if they are watching, oh they totally are, a broken video "death is amar" cover made the World not churn out lubecrative latent azure, apologizing after vomiting and jumping out the truck
and "Recently you have been acting strange" down trails of piss-coated snow
[...]death in absentia:
gymnastic, waning fluorescence
From where the shadows cast on ceiling tiles
and where the trap door opens to Hell's basement (all hell for a basement)
From where the floor gives way to demagogic murmurs
And still
I can't seem to recall the hour let alone the minute