I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

The man spoke gibberish among fools in the shoppe made entirely of glass. He spoke of unseen things creeping into us all, holy light exhuding miracles, darkness hidden and the evil waiting behind the curtains, closets, doors and drawers

The crowd listened for only a bit, but then returned to stirring sugar into their coffee. Only I seemed to understand and have seen those things previously unspoken.

He continued with tales of demons among men, angels in disguise, frivolity of life and grimness of death. Logic becoming king, insanity being lost, things coming to perfect order and the world dying its lonely death.

“Yes,” I screamed, “I have seen these things!”

“And so shall you continue to see them.” spoke he. “Until you defeat them. Unrealized saviors lie sleeping among the walking. Finding yourself is but a step in winning the war.”

The masses continued to stir their coffee as he left. And I, I didn’t see them ever again, not in that way. I only see the truth now. I only see your love, your hate, your life, your death.

I cannot see myself anymore. It’s the price I pay to see evil & good walking awake. It’s the price I pay to go beyond the mundane. It’s the price I pay to sleep in futures. It’s the price of knowing.

It’s Nothing

For a change, I don’t think this is about me. I think it’s just an early attempt at narrative.

I think my friends and I had just gotten into a role-playing game named The Call of Cthulhu (amazing game, by the way), which led me to read the short stories of H.P. Lovecraft upon which the game was based. Lovecraft’s stories mostly deal with man discovering uncaring cosmic gods, and they usually go insane from true comprehension.

If I don’t miss my guess, this little tale is a tribute of sorts to Lovecraft.