So, for the last few months I haven’t been able to come up with anything…
not a single word.
I’ve had writer’s block before, but this seems…different, somehow…
unnatural. I just haven’t been myself since it started. Not being able to create…
I feel like I’ve been suffocating.
How can people live like this?
Can this even be considered living?
I found a group to help people in my… condition.
There are only two other members: CROW and JUDAS.
I chose PSYCO RA. The name you choose for yourself has more meaning than the one given to you at birth.
Perhaps, we aren’t really alive until we choose a name for ourselves?
I had this really strange dream the other night…
It’s cold, colder than I feel it should be in fall. I sink back in the rolling chair and mindlessly tap the desk with my Bic. I shiver. A chill breeze brushes against my neck; my arms shudder with goose pimples.
I spin around in the chair and check the window: closed. As I return to my seat I notice something behind the dresser next to the window.
I pull the dresser away from the wall to reveal a partially open [redacted]
that I had never noticed before.
Goose pimples pop up all over my body as I shudder again, but not from the breeze.
It feels like something is in the room, watching me.
Could something have come out of the [redacted] without me noticing?
Fearing that the breeze might close the [redacted] I step past the dresser and over the threshold.
I walk into a dark [redacted], it couldn’t be that long.
I step cautiously through the darkness feeling for any obstacles. I find nothing. Another breeze and suddenly I feel compelled to walk further into the [redacted].
Some unseen force is pursuing me, demanding that I go on.
And I do.
For how long I walk I cannot say, but I do as the force commands and eventually find myself in a [redacted].
The [redacted] is being lit by a [redacted] held by a man.
The Man in the Long Coat.
He appears to be examining a long, vertical [redacted] in the [redacted]. My footsteps echo as I approach the figure and as he turns towards me I’m struck by his appearance.
He is old, at least he has the countenance of an old man. His face has bruises all over it and his eyes are sunken into his skull. He looks angry and somewhat frightful.
He is desperately trying to finish something before running out of time.
We stare at each other, both of us strangers encroaching on one another’s space.
Questions begin to form in my mind as my shock gives way to curiosity, but they never find their way off of my tongue.
The [redacted] behind the man opens, a great beast, and swallows him whole.
I woke immediately afterwards, head slightly spinning, then wrote a verse for the first time in…
I can’t even remember how long.
i wanted to keep a record of these events.
Something just seems off. Things have been happening lately in such a way that it’s hard for me to think of it as mere coincidence. So, I’m writing this blog if for no other reason than to prove to myself that this really happened…