Even from a distance, I can hear her. Try to listen, but her whispers make my ears hurt
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so for some reason I’ve ended up consuming multiple works of fiction that center on the protagonist being inhabited by a different entity only to have a twist ending reveal that they were in a delusional state caused by psychological trauma, followed by them realizing their identity and ultimately recovering
when I look at reviews and comments, most people express disappointment at the “cop out”, comparing it to the “he was in a coma the whole time”/“it was just a dream” trope
but I argue that this trope is different because generally, it doesn’t mean the story didn’t happen, the protagonist still did all the weird creepy shit we saw them do, but instead of removing their agency with a handy body swapping plot, they follow a character with “scary” mental illness to the end of the story, and I think that’s worth a lot more personally
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[ @xrainbowxmusesx LIKED For A Starter! || Terrance ]
[ Dylan ]
This was getting ridiculous.
There were definitely days when the pain was worse, when he thought he could feel that infection crawling through his veins, where he remembered telling Ryan they needed to amputate. The buzz of the chainsaw was right in his ear, and he closed his eyes.
No, no. He wasn't even in New York right now. He was so far from Hackett's Quarry it should have been a reprieve.
His left arm quaked and he held his grocery bag tighter against his chest with his prosthetic, wincing at the pain that shot through his arm. Gasoline, he thought, I smell gasoline.
His other hand lost its grip on his keys and he stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of metal clinking on the half-frozen sidewalk. Too much. He needed to get somewhere, anywhere else. His car was around here... Somewhere. Or did he leave it at City Motel? Memory didn't serve him anything, and he was starving for something.
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It might make sense if I was a robot, of some kind, it would explain being unable to have creative ideas, and maybe my body and brain weren't made to handle this much stress and that's why, I don't handle it
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please can we stop describing bigots as delusional. please. im so fucking tired. someone being sucked into a hate group surrounded by others who believe minorities should be oppressed and encouraging them to believe in conspiracy theories that the rest of the group believes, is fundamentally different from someone having a mental illness that causes delusions.
delusions, by definition, cannot be explained by things like cultural background - such as having a belief constantly reinforced by intentional attempts to rationalize it for the sake of maintaining power over minorities. yes, someone can be both delusional and a bigot, and yes conspiracy theories can feed into delusions, but the two are not fucking synonymous.
i did not spend my teen years convinced that i was being stalked by demons just to hear so many of you people equate my disability with incel behavior and genocidal propaganda. stop reinforcing harmful connotations about mental health struggles.
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had a psychotic breakdown again Yesterday..
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time for another thrilling round of "is this place inherently more Magic than where i was before, or am i becoming more delusional again?"
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🎶 Making my way down town, walking fast, trying not to not become a puppet to delusions again (and failing). 🎶
🎶 I might just, switch with Jonah, and sleep until this bullshit ends. 🎶
-Adam
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sometimes I feel like we need to go back to having an oracular council of schizophrenics so we can answer important geopolitical questions like “is the culture and atmosphere of 2024 unconsciously emulating the vibes of the summer of 2012 and the summer of 2006, and is this an auspicious omen, simply a side effect of the arms of the time spiral overlapping like a plump cinnamon roll, or both?”
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"How would a melody describe itself when asked?"
Reblogs are greatly appreciated!
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Truly, I am paranoid about my ever inescapable mind.
I heave and tug at the strings of my brain, hoping to pluck a sweet melody and relax upon the lilts of time, though all I can bring myself to do is clutch and tear at the wretched harp.
I am not cute, or fun, or have any rationality about me. I feel insects instead of fur, hear bell tolls instead of the small clinks of porcelain, and see nothing but death around each corner. No cats. But still a wide and snarling grin stretched from ear to ear, gnashing, drooling; hungry.
I am afraid. And yet as I clutch to the strings of my harp, they cannot be fine tuned to play a melody worth singing. Instead they wail in agony while my fingers bleed.
Am I not worthy for my suffering to be beautiful. Anything other than this. Please.
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