Who Decided that this was a good idea: Stay in the Car and Wait for the Authorities

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I really don’t know what else to do but stay in the car, especially with everything that I had just been through. I’d be putting myself in more danger if I were to venture out with that THING being out there… I just hope the authorities come fast enough so we can get the hell out of this damn fog. Dear god… did I really see that thing? Was that even real?

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15 minutes later a see a set of red and blue lights… thank god. Not one, but two cop cars appeared. I felt a great sense of relief flow through my body. A couple of the cops walked up to the car and came right along the driver’s side. Both of them seemed to be relatively young, one had short black hair with a fohawk, basic ribands sunglasses (god only knows why he was wearing sunglasses when its foggy outside), and a basic tan and black uniform. He was pretty thin and gangly, and white washed, but hell I didn’t challenge his capabilities. The other officer was much larger in stature than the other officer, he was slightly tanned, had a gold and silver sheriff badge on, slightly longer hair than the other officer, and he too was wearing sunglasses.

The officer knocked on my window and I rolled down my window and the offer slightly leaned in. “My name is sheriff Shirley, now what’s going on here?”

I took a deep breath and a rush of pure dread and panic shot through me; I couldn’t breathe! I tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out! “Hey, unlock the door! Come on son, stay with me, stay with me…” Everything around me tingled and burned. I felt a sharp pain on my right hand side towards my lower waist. My vision started to go blurry, with my peripheral vision going black and everything else going fuzzy. I felt myself going limp as I fought to hang on to consciousness. “No, no, no, no! Hey, come on stay with me!”

The officer reached his hand through the window, unlocked the car, and held me upright. “Stan w- n–d back- imm–! Call an ambu–! His pulse i- weak. We’re lo– -im!”

After that, everything went to grey static. I felt someone or something putting me in a headlock… it felt so slimy… clammy… bony too… and I… couldn’t…. breathe.

Move on to part 2

or

Start at the very beginning

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I do, don’t you?

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‘Tis my life’s calling, you know… the darkness fills my soul with enlightenment.

The night is my sanctuary, my happy place, my dwelling, the origin of who I really am.

Don’t insult me with petty excuses on why the darkness should be feared.

It should be loved and embraced by any light spot that blinds you willingly. 

How can you see with those lights in your eyes? Can you see your inner truth now?

Learn to adjust to your eyes to the blackness… allow yourself to succumb to it’s beauty.

Allow it to grip your insides like worms consuming an apple. 

Allow them to eat your hideous mask from the inside out. 

Embrace the decay for it shall lead you to rebirth.

Death is the new birth.

Welcome.


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(all credit goes to the original owner(s) of featured image)

Letter To Dearest- Disasterpiece

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Here I am once again my Dearest;

I am here writing to you once again great disasterpiece creator.

I motherfucking hope that you are happy.

Will my overall being suffice? Or does my vile nature do that.

The nature you imbedded in my feet, gnarling barbed roots twisting into the mud, reaching towards the core.

Bounded to the love you gave me to use… I can still feel it pumping in my veins. 

The fibers of my veins erode away from its acidic effects.

It seeps into my skin and reflects outwards into my aura.

My insides burn infinitely from the blinded rage within.

All that exists has gouged out eyes and drilled through eardrums. 

The walking blind, the crawling deaf, the flying dead, the jaded ones.

Why did you create me dearest? For what purpose? I refuse to believe what it could be.

I’ve heard this all before and before and before that and before them.

Before they came, before they appeared, before they spoke, before they listened.

Before it all began. Before my existence. Before all.

Hell is real. She laughs at our expense. She is aroused by our sorrows.

She’s not a devil, nor a demon, nor a being. She’s in your head. 

Hell exists within our minds alone. Her entity exists in our minds.

The Divine Exists too… he watches me, he follows me, he guides me.

Blinding, morphing, creating, changing…

She smiles in my presence… The Divine smiles in my presence…

What the fuck do you want from me?

You won’t singe me, nor save me.

But now it’s just me… who else?

With me… no one other than my ‘divine’ presence. 

I’m no savior, no saint, no prophet, no healer… nothing.

I am the disasterpiece.

I am your disasterpiece.

You’re welcome.


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(all credit goes to the original owner(s) of featured image)

The Artists’ Lament

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The ocean of secrets is only within my own reach. 

Blood, sweat, and tears are the crucial ingredients to create the formula of the artists’ lament.

The canvas is my flesh as the paintbrush is the knife.

The artist’s lament is the color that soaks the paint brush of an unearthly color.

I am numb to the touch of anything beyond my own understanding.

I never thought that the truth would hurt like this.

Why must the artistic ones suffer the most to create the perfect picture?

Please cut the canvas open so I may sleep without the weight of lies tearing me apart.

Set me free.


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(all credit goes to the original owner(s) of featured image)