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!