#narative

[andridoank]

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[shadow9981]

When I was quite younger, and don't ask me when specifically, I used to experiment with my own mind. It started out easy, with "magic shrooms" and weed, but I quickly moved to LSD and got stuck on it for a while. After loosing my job and being down on my luck for some time, I decided to try something that wouldn't be so bad for mt employment. I have discovered, or maybe even created, another voice in my mind, it was novel, and it was really fun at first. We lived in peace, but after a while I got bored. I began taking LSD again.

During one of the trips I stumbled upon a weird book about thoughtforms. Maybe I even dreamt up the whole thing, because when I awoken the book was gone, but nonetheless I remembered the methods in it. The voice in my mind had told me that it's a bad idea, but by me being in this hotel you can guess that I didn't listen. I have created a thought form. An imaginary friend, if you will, but that friend won't disappear when I forgot him, or it. It was constantly at least in my peripheral vision...

I'm getting of track, right. If you want, I'll tell you this another time. Anyways...

After years of experimenting, my mind was shattered, and I was in and out of a psych ward. Sometimes I lost control fully, and all that I could do was just passively observe. They gave me every drug they had, prescribed every method their could. Nothing worked.

All previous ideas and thoughts were produced by my own mind, yet the next idea... It reached out to me on it's own. It promised stability, it promised help, and it promised shelter. It rooted itself in my head, the idea of this hotel. It grew, pushing out everything and everyone else, leaving only me and itself. Even the voice of hell and solace that accompanied me all these years fell silent.

When I got out I began wondering the world, looking for the hotel. I tried to get a position in a local hotel, got a loan and opened a motel, even tried to get myself a good chunk of equity from a local hotel. But the idea could not be satisfied. It was too grand for this world.

I became insane. I tried everything. I loaned, lied, licked boots, I got so much, built so many grand places. But this one, our main attraction, it found me. Once, in my own house I found a new door. It led down. It led to void, abyss, whatever you want to call it. I wanted to step there. For one last time, a voice from my mind, the one that was there second only after me, had cried out to me, asking to quit.

I took a step. I fell for years. Or decades. Or maybe even seconds. I landed near the heart of the thing. It's nothing like a heart, it's well... More of a universe. I didn't dare to tuch it. Around it, my grand idea of a hotel was leaking out of my mind and forming the reality around it. It felt like my very brain was crying the tears of relief. When my mind was empty, I stood in a bright and beautiful foyer, the very one that you saw when you just entered.

That's how the first five floors were made. The garden at the top offered a great reflection of the heart of the hotel. That was as much that I could do for the hotel. Then it was the guests' turn. People came end went, each leaving their ideas, their memories, and their thoughts here. The hotel used them, like it used mine, and created the rest. It still grows to this day, feeding on thoughts of people jist like you. But don't worry... It won't do you any harm, unless... Don't worry.

Well, won't you look at the time. It's time for me to fill lut some paper work. And don't worry, this night is on me, just don't think about the hotel too hard.

[vikalnt]

Pertunjukan Mata Angin

Di awal segala kemungkinan, ada yang tidak memilih menjadi sesuatu. Ia hanya ada, tanpa alasan untuk memahami dirinya, Dari keheningan, sebuah kesadaran yang terpisah oleh makna tak terucap. Yang satu menatap ke luar, mencari bentuk, Yang satu menatap ke dalam, mencari alasan

Mereka berjalan dalam arus waktu yang belum tahu apakah ia sungguh mengalir Kadang mereka saling mendekat, seperti dua pemikiran yang hampir menyentuh kesimpulan yang sama, namun setiap kali hampir bertemu, semesta menarik napas, dan jarak itu lahir kembali, lebih sunyi dari sebelumnya. Yang satu mulai bertanya “Apakah keberadaan berarti jika tak ada yang menyaksikan?” Yang lain menjawab tanpa suara: “Kesaksian hanyalah bentuk lain dari keterasingan” Maka keduanya pun terus berjalan… tidak menuju, tidak menjauh, hanya mengada. Mereka menjadi gema yang tak tahu siapa yang pertama bersuara, Mereka menjadi bayang yang tak tahu mana cahaya, mana gelap, Dan waktu, yang sejak tadi berpura-pura abadi, menunduk dalam kelelahan, menyadari bahwa ada hal-hal yang tak dapat dijelaskan, karena keberadaannya sendiri adalah pertanyaan,

Malam turun tanpa alasan. Keduanya berhenti di tepi kekosongan, Tak ada akhir, sebab akhir adalah pertemuan, dan pertemuan adalah hal yang tak mungkin bagi yang diciptakan dari jarak. Hening pun menutup kisah itu, bukan sebagai penutup, tetapi sebagai satu-satunya kebenaran yang tersisa.

Di ruang sunyi, dua cahaya terlahir dari luka waktu, keduanya bergerak, saling menembus, lalu saling kehilangan, tanpa pernah benar-benar bersentuhan. jeda di antara keduanya, tempat keberadaan meragukan dirinya sendiri. Kadang yang satu menjelma nyala, yang lain menjadi bayang, dan semesta bergetar sejenak, seolah mengerti makna dari keberlanjutan. Namun hukum takdir lebih tua dari harapan, yang terbakar takkan menjadi gelap, dan yang gelap takkan pernah memahami nyala. Lalu waktu berlalu seperti doa yang terlupa, meninggalkan jejak samar pada dinding kesadaran.

[howifeltabouthim]

They'd been returned to the story as mysteriously as they'd left it.

Lev Grossman, from The Bright Sword

[museum-archives]

Will-o'-the-Wisp

Artist: Elizabeth Adela Armstrong Forbes

Date: ca. 1900

Medium: Oil on canvas

[that-random-fandom-s]

I love tragedies but am scared of sad stories.

(Asking For Recommendations At The Bottom)

Tragedies feel so full of hope, so full of "it happened and it didn't change anything but it mattered anyway", full of people fighting against inevitability, full of people Trying and Believing in making things better.

Some examples of tragedies in media that I love:

They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera

Exandria Unlimited: Calamity By Critical Role (featuring Brennan Lee Mulligan and Lou Wilson) (I cannot recommend this enough)

Hamlet (reading and watching and I love writing about this dude)

Fleabag (which if you've seen, go watch Crashing -her other show)

The Haunting Of Bly Manor

Hadestown (Orpheus and Eurydice in general, looking at you Hozier)

Dead Poet Society

etc.

I also love the more abstract or involved tragedies that happen in the middle of TV shows or books that people write about on here. What just made me want to write this was a post about Clara and the doctor and its mirroring of Hadestown and it just hit so right. what is weird about that is that I never thought I liked sad stories. I am absolutely terrified of reading A Little Life, The Giving Tree made me run out of the room as a kid because it made me so sad and mad.

Literally it is during writing this when I realised that it's not that I don't like them but that they just hit so hard. I was turning over an outlier in the back of my mind, that I love (though can't reread for another few years) The Book Thief by Mark Zusak. I can't classify it as tragedy because it just feels wrong to, it is tragic of course but in the sad way and it hurt in a way that didn't feel healing like I've come to associate and expect with and from tragedies.

I'm avoiding sad stories right now for the most part but I would love some tragedy recommendations.

Here is my current watchlist of sadness

Fellow Travelers

The Magnus Archives

What If It's Us

The Song Of Achilles

The First To Die At The End

Before Trilogy

If you want my fanfic tragedy recs ask and ill make up my list

[benji-media]

temple ruins

[inbeautiful-trauma]

Ever Be Again

The could have been

The never weres

The should've been's

And the always weres

We turn these over in our heads as we remember

Tumble and fumble our way through the past

Trying to make sense of a story that is still being written

But can also never be unwritten

Our pens are perpetually running out of ink

Because we only have so much blood

Try to write a story worth reading

Between the first stroke

And when we bleed out

everything has been

And nothing we will ever be again