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Fragments of a Decaying Mind (Entry II)

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Entry II — The Hollow Hours The nights blend into each other now. I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Time stretches thin, like it’s about to rip, and I drift somewhere in between. Sleep swears it won’t take me, not fully. Instead I float in half-dreams, where blurred faces melt, voices scatter, darkness hums… and everything slips away before I can reach out and grasp it. The silence is heavy. Louder, even. My chest feels hollow, my head heavier with every blink, every passing hour. I try to remember what used to make me feel alive. Joy, fear, even simple rest. Was it real? Is it still possible? Those things feel like they belonged to someone else. Someone I can barely recall. The same ache in my skull, the same sense that little pieces of me are being stolen away in the dark. So I sink into the hours. Small. Curled in on myself. And I wonder how far down it goes… and if there’s anything left of me when I finally reach the bottom. --- Maybe it was a time jump all along. ...
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Fragments of a Decaying Mind (Entry I)

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Entry I — The Heat Within Tonight, well same as all nights lately. I feel as though my brain is boiling inside its fragile cage. It started as a fever, a low heat, a faint burn at the edges of my thoughts, but soon every idea began to melt, and created this nameless broth. Memories lose their shape, words twist, and I can almost hear the sound of my nerves collapsing. A  hiss, like flesh pressed too long against the flame. There’s a numbness that follows. A stillness, a silence that should be relief but isn’t. It’s not peace, but the absence of feeling, as if a flame burning away the part of me that once cared. My vision swims in haze, my skull throbs, and I wonder if I am becoming less human each passing hour.  Sometimes I imagine I can see the smoke curling out of my own mind, as if I’m watching myself fade into nothing.  And sometimes - this is the hardest part - I realize I don’t even know if I want to fight it.
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The Dream I Never Wanted to Wake From (PART I)

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From the dream I saw on October 9, 2009… PART I: It started like most dreams do… a haze… a shifting space where time didn’t quite exist, or didn’t move in any way I recognized. And suddenly… I was on the set of Merlin. But it didn’t feel like a set. It didn’t feel like fiction. I wasn’t sure if I was watching a show… or living inside another era entirely. Somehow, the story and the world had folded into each other. The line between them blurred, until they became one. And it felt real - not in a logical way, but in the way a place does when your heart reacts before your mind can explain why. Like I’d stepped into a version of the world I was never meant to find… but somehow had. A world suspended between stone and silence… and something I can only call familiar. Stone corridors, candlelight, velvet shadows… Everything around me breathed like history - but the kind that still knew my name. It didn’t feel made-up. It felt like a memory I didn’t know I had. I wasn’t a visitor. I wasn’t w...
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Feral Theatre of Dionysus

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One day, I found myself angry at Dionysus again. Not a small kind of anger, not something clean. Something deeper. Restless. Tight. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. “He’s definitely up to something,” I muttered. I started walking faster. His traces were everywhere: spilled wine soaking into the earth, crushed grapes under my feet, wreaths hanging carelessly from branches. But him? You never really catch him. Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft. A little drunk. A little mocking. But warm in a way that unsettled me more than anything. I followed it. And there he was. Sitting on a rock, head tilted back, laughing at the sky. Surrounded by silhouettes. Bodies moving without rhythm, without restraint, as if something inside them had broken loose and refused to return. One was laughing too hard, barely breathing, tears running down their face. Another was crying, quiet and hollow, like something had finally given up. Someone else stood still, completely empty, or maybe finally full. I couldn’t t...
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If I Stop Talking, the World’s Going to End

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There was this girl… her name? Doesn’t matter. Could’ve been yours. Could’ve been mine. She talked too much. Always had. Always did. Always would. Not in that “I love to hear myself speak” way. It was more like… If she didn’t let it out, it would eat her alive. All of it. T he stories, the memories, the pain she never asked for but somehow inherited. Words pour out too fast, too deep, too much. She tells you about her first heartbreak before you’ve even finished your drink. She brings up her childhood trauma mid-laugh. And by the time you blink, she’s already saying, “Sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it?” But she can’t stop. She doesn’t know how. Because somewhere deep inside her, where the hurt still sleeps in the fetal position. She believes if she stays silent long enough… you’ll disappear. She had this brain that moved too fast. Tangents everywhere. She’d lose her point halfway through and circle back like she was chasing a thread she dropped in the middle of the sentence....
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