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"The normal human consciousness is not equipped to deal with the pillars and suspension cables of the universe."

Message from Writer

They/them, chronically ill, chaotic neutral.

I've been writing as long as I can remember, and I never intend to stop. I write speculative fiction, and I'm most at home among the underrepresented and the bizarre.

Neil Gaiman
Terry Pratchett
Norse mythology
Doctor Who
The Magnus Archives
The Mechanisms

The Something and Nothing of Pain

June 21, 2019


There’s something suffocating
about a story
you know no one
will want to hear.

It presses down on your chest,
your shoulders,
plastering tar
on the inside
of your stomach
and in front of your eyes.

No one wants to hear the story
of a failing life,
the story of someone barely
holding on,
struggling to breath even
as their head falls below
the surface,
filling their lungs with deep breaths of
inky water that yearns
to kill,
because the inky
water is the only thing
There’s something isolating
about a pain
you know
you can’t share with anyone.

A pain constantly present,
the devil on your shoulder
and in your knees
and wrists
and hips
and ankles. 

The devil who slithers
around your body
looking for crannies to burrow into,
places untouched by damage
to destroy,
new kinds of ways to make
you clutch your chest
or side
or head
and think,
What have I done wrong this time?
Where is the pain coming from now?
There’s something hopeless about
the questions
you stop answering,
because the answer
never changes
and you know it’s not the answer they’re looking for.

You decided a while ago
not to lie
or smile,
but that leaves you with the choice between
a shrug
and silence,
and you’re so tired of the silence.
There’s something relentless about
good intentions,
the I just want to help,
I just want to help but I have no idea how
good intentions.

Pressing you to move,
to eat better,
this diet
or that,
to apply yourself to something
but the thing they don’t understand
How can anything be meaningful when just existing hurts this much?
There’s something terrifying about
a brain that
doesn’t function.
A brain that stumbles and
shuts down,
a brain that can’t retrieve the words
from dark inner corners
where you know they should be,
but where there is only

A brain full of fog which takes away
your words.
Your solace,
your only source of sanity.
A brain in which you cannot find
your words is a place of
chaos and despair.

When the brain
slows and
stutters and
words are replaced
with apathy.
A brain without words is a place
that doesn’t care,
so the words
don’t seem to matter
and there is only empty.
In the brain and soul,
only an ache of
There’s something powerful about
The look how much I’m missing
kind of anger,
the I have lost my life
kind of anger,
the how dare you take my life
kind of anger.

There’s a line inside,
and sometimes when
after months and months
of nothing,
and apathy,
and please I’m just so tired let it all be over,
that line is crossed
and something

Then the anger broils up
out of the fog,
and out of the darkness and lost words and
nothing there is
flame and rage and fury,
seething red and glowing,
feeding on the embers
of the pain and
isolation and
loneliness and
All of it rears up,
consumed by a red-hot refusal to
just let it all be over.

That anger feeds something,
that allows you to get out of bed and
at the sky,
to make the decision that this is your
life and you will live it,
damn everything else.
It sets you back on
your feet and
launches you upwards,
letting you look down on your disease
and your apathy
and spit on it.
That fire gives you hope.
There’s something powerful
about anger.
It can save you.       


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