Tuesday, 4 September 2012

the questioning has been going on for weeks now.

but He still has not come

the boy is in very bad shape, but is alive and conscious. His agent's processes are taking a long time. perhaps there is something different about those who run.

the girl is in the house, but he's harmless. His agent seems to command her respect.

it's the other girl that worries me. i haven't seen her in a while.

Thursday, 23 August 2012

i have made the most wonderful discovery

there is no i anymore

there is no self and identity is a lie there is no identity there is only the interconnected mass-consciousness of the we

there is no us and Him

there is no you and i

there is no i

we are all joined

i always wondered why the headaches were so bad but now i know

it is the mind struggling to preserve the self in the face of its own obsolescence

but the self is a useless construct

identity is a useless construct

we all have blank, featureless faces

my mask is quite comfortable now

Monday, 6 August 2012

Notes: 06/08/2012

Tonight it happens.

I have seen terrible things in my time in this little game, my friends, and they started fifteen years ago with a book. A book of mysteries and codes, begging to be solved, revealing themselves to be either ingenious or impossible. After everything was taken from me, I wrote a book. And now, with the finish of what will be my final book, it ends. They have won.

The two young women are still here. They have not fled, though I cannot tell why. But I hope that they do soon. His man has revealed himself. A tangle of long red hair, and clothes which, if I am not mistaken, mark him as a teenager. He is surprisingly lucid, even intelligent, especially compared to the wild, gibbering maniacs so often under his employ. His Daddy is on His way, and I am to either join or perish.

He has given me a mask, like his. It is not crude or ugly, but rather the porcelin of a young man's face, unlined by decades of fear. It is a mask I desire very much, but I am afraid to put it on. He says it does not hurt. There is peace, like meditation. No fear. No sorrow.

I cannot imagine life without fear or sorrow. It sounds inviting.

My guest is bound and gagged in my home, as a peace offering to Him. The young women, to the best of my knowledge, believe he has fled of his own volition. He is old enough, a man grown. My son did not recieve such a luxury.

The mask looks up at me. There is no going back from here. I do not know what will happen. Maybe I will transcend, like that first book promised.

I will endeavour to continue to post if I am able. But this is my last post as what can charitably called a free man.

Thursday, 26 July 2012

Notes: 26/07/2012

I have decided against putting the whole book online. I appreciate that there's an audience out there who may benefit, but I have an overriding nostalgia for books. Thick, heavy tomes, full to the brim with knowledge. I shall be sending it instead to a publisher. However, I feel that I should probably summarise the gist of it for audiences here.

Plato devised a thought experiment - a hypothetical apparatus used in philosophy - referred to as the allegory of the cave. He hypothesised a world where a community lived only in a cave, unexposed to the world outside. All they knew of the world was in that cave. And through a hole in the wall, shapes of various things were projected onto the wall. The people of the cave, since they only had experience of these imperfect representations, would assume that these projections were the real thing. He used this to explain his theories on mathematical reality (the situation wherein mathmatically accurate geometric forms and the like cannot genuinely exist in the real world) and furthermore about consciousness and memory. He posited that knowledge is external, and that we can only discover it, not generate it ourselves, and that it exists in a plane beyond reality, which contains inaccuracy and imperfection. Further thinkers expanded this to state that all knowledge exists collected on another plane of existance, called the Akashic Records. This contains a perfect form of all the knowledge in the world.

Of course, if one were to look at Kurt Godel's incompleteness theorems, or the philosophy of Decartes and Hume, we are forced to admit that there is no knowledge, not really. We take everything on faith, build upon central assumptions that cannot be tested. We cannot confirm that our senses are not lying to us. We cannot confirm that we are not the only truly sentient being in the world, or that we are not truly sentient and genuine sentience contains aspects we cannot imagine. We cannot prove conclusively that x=x. Simply put, the true limits of a system cannot be tested from within that system.Arithmatic cannot be used to prove arithmatic.

When one grasps this, one thinks; in the mathematic realm, where infinity lies between any two values, what are the chances that x genuinely equals exactly x? If one were to imagine a genuine, externally realised true reality, there are many millions of possibilities for truth on which we build from just one. We say x=x, and not any of the infinite values even slightly to either side. In short, the foundations for all of our experience of the world are probably wrong. And the effects of this, building upon this sinking foundation, would rattle in a supreme corruption throughout human knowledge and experience.

Where is this corruption found?

In a being for whom even experience thereof is a weapon to be used against you.

In a being of such incompatible truth that your mind strains and buckles trying to restrain it, and keep it within rational bounds.

In a being seemingly constructed from many different concrete concepts and ideas, but consistent in none.

I believe that between the truth of the Akashic records and the reality of the world behind us, growing like some deep black rot, is the Slender Man. A corruption of the world around him, who twists and warps reality and uses truth as a weapon, and who shatters everything we rationally know, the cracks spreading out like great tendrills.

- - - - - - -

I am glad the manuscript is on its way to my publisher. The children have drawn something dark here. It has not been true for a long time - not even with the attacks on the camera crew - that I have truly been scared for my life. But I am now.

Monday, 16 July 2012

Notes: 16/07/2012

There's dissent amongst the ranks. The child who was looking for me. She's locked in their hotel room. Tied up most of the time. Clearly whatever she's doing, they object to it. Maybe they don't want her looking for me. Maybe they're His agents.

The other two are interesting. The boy, the one who's missing an arm snapped. He's been shouting at the other girl lot. One gets the impression that only half of this is aggression over the girl, though.

They haven't even noticed me watching.

The book is finished. I might share a piece of it sometime.

Thursday, 5 July 2012

Notes 05/07/2012

Suddenly some activity in this godforsaken town.

Three poppets, fresh and eager, trying to find god only knows what.

Except that I'm fairly certain one of them is trying to find       m         e        .

One of His watchers has been making an appearence too. Tall, ragged. The usual facial covering. It's been dark, so I can't discern much else.

It's a good job the new book is coming to a close. I feel a deadline approaching.

And the Pallid Mask enters stage left.

Friday, 15 June 2012

Notes: 15/06/2012

Not just passive, you know

No no, No No No

I have a new theory. I am quite pleased with it all things considered. The summation of years. But the book is taking longer than expected. It's all

it's all tangled up
like a web in my
and the web has a rather dapper spider at the centre.

It's been so long since he came to join me. I almost miss him. But I expect I'll be recieving company before too long. What with the bears and all. Someone must have guessed.

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Notes: 16/05/2012

They think they finally found and took down all of the bodies in the woods.

At least, they found everyone they were looking for. But they're not done yet.

They need to look c   l   o    s   e    r

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Notes: 18/03/2012

The Valium dulls and consciousness returns. The monotony of grey hell resumes.

The crew all disappeared. There were rumors of bodies hanging in the woods, gone by the time the police arrived. A pity.

My new book is underway.

Monday, 30 January 2012

Notes: 30/01/2012

I found what looked like the remains of a tree today, in the hour or so I dared leave my sanctuary. It was like it had been hollowed while still standing, torn almost like a chair, with the wood in the middle gone entirely and only the layer of bark at the back.
It reminds me of a cocoon, emptied of its creator. Or an egg. What progeny it could yield to!

I was here seven days ago and this was any other tree in the forest. Named and presented before the gods before it's too late, I think idly.

I was reminded of a dream, though not one of mine own. I then retreated to the safety of my sanctuary. I do not think I shall re-emerge for some time.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

Notes: 18/01/2012

Today I saw an old New York Times.

Haven't seen one here in years.

Takes me back.

They're blaming bears now. No sightings.