#controverzy

[thisblogisdeadlmao]

hi leslie.  hi pacifica.  hi dipper.

[elsshu-blog]

controverzy started following you

Ooooooh, weird. Fancy seeing you here, buddy! 

[telemystic]

controverzy​ The journal doesn’t belong to you, either.  As it stands right now, in my little iteration of our timeline -- my boyfriend has 1 & 3, and I have 2.  Because I found it first, thank you very much.  Don’t y’all even get me started on this mess.  I earned this thing back.

sequesterred My boyfriend is xenofiled, not uh.  This other Dipper here.  Timelines are gettin’ to be a right damn mess, and I got a headache tryin’ to sort this out. 

[thisblogisdeadlmao]

controverzy replied to your post:

i’ll check them out when i’m done with school!!

Gonna figure that means I did it right, huh? These’ve been entertaining me for a while.

[thisblogisdeadlmao]

Dipper’s awake. And I still need the summoning info in the second journal.

[mysanthropic]

         There was perhaps a moment of doubt in his navigation into the woods this time, and perhaps Dipper could admit that maybe he was lost. Maybe. Probably. Okay, so he was. With the threat of mystery around every corner, twist, turn, and knobby old tree, he very well could fall victim to a hide behind or any other secret this forest held. He was at the mercy of the natural, and supernatural.

It was nothing short of a surprise to see a clearing ahead; with copious amounts of sunlight shining through to the earth. He was certain it wasn’t the way home considering how deep he’d gone, but it was better than sticking around in the dark.

Emerging to see what could easily be mistaken for a sanctuary, Dipper did his best to hold his ground. If he let his guard down, he’d be in for it. That was how it went down in every movie. Still, the area was littered with tiny wildflowers in patches throughout the grass. As brown eyes scanned over their surroundings, he could only jump at an unexpected voice.

                 “The prettier the flower, the farther from the path.”

Whirling on heel almost instinctively, the crack in his voice couldn’t be any more noticeable as he made his appeal.

“Far from the path?” Maybe an awkward laugh came out here. “…You’re the one sneaking around in the forest.”

          Being out here had the completely opposite effect on him than it did on most people these days.  It hasn’t even been half a year yet since the incident, and he admittedly still felt a little jittery being surrounded by the trees.  But the dreams are so incredibly vivid sometimes that he has decided the only way around this is to subject himself to the ageless advice: ‘face your fears.’

          Today was a nice day, at least.  And as long as he could find his way through, as long as he could stay on the very specific dirt path -- or at the very least, keep it within sight -- then he should be all right.  And maybe, just maybe ...  he could sit down somewhere and pull out his notepad, and he could write some poetry.  Something filled with a lot more talk about the way the leaves shivered in the spring breeze, and a lot less trembling over the way those edelwood trees bled that black oil.

          So, while Greg is off playing with one of his friends ( can’t drag him into this, it’s not fair to him, he’s not ready to come back through here ), he hauls on his shoes, pulls his jumper on over his dress shirt, and heads out to clamber up over that wall behind the cemetary again.  And with a deep breath, he drops himself over to the other side.  This time, he’s wary of the train tracks, and deeply hyperaware of the lake, though he avoids doing anything more than shooting a disdainful look as he eases around its perimeter.

              Reminder to self: never do anything that stupid again.

          The forest is as it was the last time he came out here.  Peaceful, mostly.  Forgiving.  And there’s no snow on the ground anymore, leaving it a little less sinister than it was in his memories.  There were flowers lining the grass that followed the path.  It seemed ... nice.  And so he descends through, gravel and dirt crunching under his shoes, but at some point, that path starts to give way to grass growth.  To a little clearing.  He peeks over his shoulder.  Everything seems, well.  Visible, from here.

          And so he whips his notepad out, and steps off the path, peeking at the flowers at his feet.  Maybe he muse aloud to himself as he tries to find his pen somewhere in his pockets.  And then he hears a voice, causing him to jump, and lose it again -- along with the little tablet of his poems.

          “ OH.  -- Oh.  Um.  H -- Hi there.  ... Sorry, I, um.  I thought I was ... I mean ... I was just -- ” talking to myself, don’t mind me “--musing to myself, uh.  I didn’t know anyone else was here, I didn’t see you from over ... over there, um.  Hi. ”