time has dissolved for me. days and months have fallen away. this room is the manifestation of my existence. a light in the center of darkness. the screen is my present, the dimly lit objects are those few thoughts that i can recollect, and the absolute darkness is everything beyond that. shadows within shadows. the only thing that tells me time is moving has been the steady amplification of pain. the strength of my headaches, the sharpness of my joints, the strain on my eyes. that these have been getting worse tells me i'm still living. that everything is not just in stasis. the only escape i have is when i can sleep again, I spend more time sleeping than awake. You could say my real life begins when my eyes close, but I can’t remember much of what happens. It’s mostly back when I was a kid, spending time with those friends I had. Their faces are all completely forgotten to me now, but I don’t notice that when I’m there. It’s just like how it used to be. I don’t like these dreams when I’m awake. They’re too obviously telling me that’s when I was happy. That’s when i really existed. I don’t accept such things when I’m awake. I live in denial. I entertain my fantasies, I daydream about all the things I’d like to do, I believe I’ll really do them. Every once in a while, something will poke a hole in that veil, and terror seeps in. But I always patch it up, and I’m just left with that mild feeling of unease, that everything is fucking rotten, that the sheer cacophony, the fucking shit heap, the colossally putrid cum crusted fucking catastrophe that is my life, is real and inescapable. But I can shrug that feeling off. Rather, I don’t believe in it. I believe in my lie. I wouldn’t be able to live if I couldn’t. The projects that I’ll finish, the skills I’ll acquire, The people I’ll befriend. It always looms in front of me, I’m always moving towards it. Happiness is just ahead of me. Just take one more step. One step at a time. Even in writing this I can cope. I’m merely writing a character, there’s only a small part of my real self in this. It’s imagined, lightly inspired by myself. Of course, where we differ is I actually am moving toward improving my skills, I really will finish the projects that I fantasize about. We’re different beasts. He’s a madman, so much so that that he’s even one dimensional. I’m much too complicated to be summed up like this. It’s all so hopeless. I can’t live.

dialogue from a dream


Have you ever seen the face of a woman after being confessed to by a man she finds unattractive? It’s a look of pure repulsion, like they’re being made sick to their stomach. What they’re seeing is the proposition to reproduce from an unfit mate, more or less, and the thing that dominates her mind is what actions she has to take to avoid being raped. The feeling of love is a desire to inflict violence, whether it’s reciprocal is simply happenstance, it’s to exert their will unto another. And yet, we find love a beautiful thing. Countless poems are written, detailing the fluttering of the heart, the warmth that swims in the stomach, the rapture of the mind. In our blissful unknowing our pure hearts are swept up in this guiding force. The meaning of the world, the essence of the soul, is just violence disguised in a ballroom dress. At least that’s what they’d have you believe.

i will never speak my age


I went from being ashamed of being young to being ashamed of being old, with no transitional period. I will always be inferior to all people of every time. In any place the only comfort I can take is that I’m propping up whoever is second worst, at least I can take away the burden from that person. It’s my terminal affliction, whatever the absolute worst position, choice or option is, I’ll be there, with all eyes darting to me, and quickly away. There’s a prickling veil that covers me always and that will never leave until everyone just dies.



The way seasons repeat, months and days come around again, gives us the false idea that we have second chances. That if you miss something you can catch it again when it comes back around. I missed my youth, but I'll just do it right next time. Every moment that passes is lost, and unrecoverable. Every choice is our last chance, we don't live provisional lives.



I've had this recurring feeling, maybe it started in highschool, that the whole world is is on a joke that I'm not. It's not ever present but notably there are moments when things collide in such a way, or someone will speak in a certain tone, they'll subtly reference something that happened to me that they should have no idea about. A couple weeks ago on ************************************************************************************************************************************************************* It's always something admissable like that, something so slight, but they stack up over time and even if I don't believe the world is colluding against me, it's a feeling I can't shake, and contributes to me being very guarded and distrusting. In general how I think things are seem to be contrary to how other people view them, and when things happen that suggest this it's disconcerting in a profound way. I don't know if what I'm seeing is how it is, or if how I'm acting is how I'm acting, or if what someone says is what they're saying. This feeling oppresses me and I imagine is put on me to stop me from leaving my comfort zone, where my ideas aren't critiqued and I'm safe from recognition. When people are aware of me I can't move. Only when free from the eyes of existence am I un-oppressed, until then I'm being physically arrested by thoughts, not just from being seen, from being heard, but just the fact that my existence is acknowledged makes me heart stoppingly scared.


When I was little I was enthralled by the little things. My eyes almost touched the page as I admired the tiniest etchings, down to the individual cross hatchings- no, down to the little bumps on the paper. I was enraptured by the miniature, maybe it's because everything was new to me, maybe it's because I was miniature myself. Now I find myself not even seeing what's before me. As soon as I meet something, my attention is on what's to come; what's after. As a result I'm a constant stranger to the present. I can't experience things directly anymore, let alone be enraptured by the finest details of them. This is what is living second-hand. Not even being able to be present. But the manga Nausicaa brings that back, I have a physical print of it here, I don't think a shitty watermarked png would do it for me, but the drawings in here are really fine. I admire it, it's one of those special things that shuts off your voice and just lets you focus, in silence. Cat Returns is Ghibli's best movie though, sorry Miyazaki.


I love reading YouTube comments, particularly below music videos for classic songs, or lesser known classical works are where you find people who are less wired, and feel like a cut through the printed, manic mirror-self that internet people can only express themselves through, people feeling sentimental and nostalgic, and speak without much regard for appearences, or if they do write to impress they at least aren't afraid of how they'll be thought of, and don't shy away from off kilter, or indeed cliched ways of expressing themselves. I like to read words.

A book without words, a silent song. There's something that can't be expressed by any means, only with absence. A film without film.
I think there's a beauty in omission, in absence.


Do you know that thing, when you focus on something very small and delicate, and your eye's depth of field jitters and cuts out for half a second as you lose sight of it slightly? That's what happens to my heart when I see your name, or a similar shape, on a page. Even before I see the word it will happen and I'll search around and I'll find it somewhere. It's a panic, love is mania.

neet time distortion effect 21.10.21

people wonder how can hikkikomori can let so much of their life go by without doing anything, but what they don't understand is that time for NEETS works differently from regular people.
Normalfags talk about time speeding up as they get older, but for a NEET as soon as you're ready to get started on something, you're already sleepy again, and in this way, day after day gets deleted from your memory.
The years stack up behind you, where you aren't looking. Ten years can have passed but for you things from back then feel like only last week, 6 months ago is just the other day. At the same time, paradoxically, everything feels distant.
It becomes difficult to recall things directly, and memories blend together in a dense fog, intense blackness, it's hard to differenciate the shapes in the dark, murkey pool.
The NEET time distortion effect. A constant, distant present.


there's no telling whether it's better to be alive than dead. I prefer to be asleep, and I prefer dreamless nights, where I sleep soundlessly. There are a lots of things where only the transition to them is painful, and afterwards are good. Dying being bad doesn't mean being dead is. If there's no hell, I'd rather be dead. I'd like to be dead.

the secret is to not focus on it. think about something else, distract yourself, wait until your heart rate goes down, then do it before you can react, without thinking, like it has nothing to do with suicide. as if it's just a mechanical motion. stripping bark off wood. combing hair. a streak of ink. all you have to do is catch yourself off-guard for 1 second. That's why guns, bridges are the most succesful methods, they take the shortest amount of courage.

One time, when I had an online friend, I was scared of sending a message, so I held a pen above my mouse's left click, and I really was scared, my heart was beating fast, my head was aching, I felt hot, and the pen slipped out of my fingers and sent the message. I didn't even have to click.


is this my arm? it doesn’t look like my arm. it feels weak, when i move it. the veins under my wrist look weird. when did that happen? maybe i just never noticed.
is this my face? didn’t my face used to be cute? maybe i’m wrong. but, at some point it’s definitely changed. i guess this is what it looks like.
is it normal to always feel pain? to always itch, i’m uncomfortable.


the distant sounds of machinery loop endlessly, wrapped in static, masked by the sounds of japanese women making baby noises over digital synthesisers.

Outside the crane flies are waking up, starting their brief lives in the misty eyed heat.
They’ll fumble their first steps as they earnestly strive to live these days to their fullest. Whatever happens, no one can say that they weren’t alive.

I struggle to recall something, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me.


In january 2021 I wrote:
-I feel like I'm living in the end times. Like everything good has passed and I'm just persisting past the credits.
Now I feel the same, but with different words. People like me... Us... Are in a waiting room.

A waiting room for what? You know what. Whatever it is. It doesn't matter. You can't start anything because you don't know when you'll be called, and you can't leave because you've been waiting too long. So you just sit, thinking. You think of everything, you remember. You feel every way, you become divorced from your body. You watch your hands. You close your eyes and try to see them. After a year, whether your eyes are open or closed, you can see the room, you can see your hands. There's no difference whether you move them in one world or the other. There's no difference.

You think up melodies, you find descriptions for things. You make melodies so beautiful you cry, you find words that cause you to clench your teeth from spite. You hang on to these, you repeat them to yourself so they aren't obliviated, like most of your thoughts are. They mutate with time, you deliberate endlessly about whether to change the tiniest details, the enunciation of words, whether to let a note ring out or abrupt. You do this while other details change on their own, from your own faulted memory. After some years, you don't ever feel bored. Your memory is too tattered to let you be bored. Every moment is exciting, all the things you once knew are novel to you now.

You watch lucky star in your head, you can hear the voices. Konata looks at you between bites of her chocolate cornette, and asks which side you think you should start from. You give every answer, you hear every response, each again and again. You speak Japanese. She uses the words you invented, she uses words you don't know, she explains them for you. You already knew them.

You know you'll be called one day, but you don't believe it. You don't feel it. But you wait anyway. You don't know what for.

It's as if you're in a theatre, just sitting after the credits have ended, still staring at the black.


How are you able to live like this? Untalanted, Unskilled, Unpersonable, Unintelligent, Unhappy.
You adopt it as your persona. Then the jeering laughing, those upturned brows, sharp cornered smiles. The disdain, disgust and plain neglect all become like old friends.
"Of course that would happen, again, for the uncountable time, that's who I am. That's my fate. Of course my drawing is a horrid scratching- no, an un-evocative, un-remarkablee scratching, that's my fate."
A man likes a truth, a rule, and above all a consistency. To reach out with hope, and every time be rejected is unbearable exruciation, but when you reach out knowing, being absolutely sure that you'll be rejected,
just as all the times before, you do it with a smile. An old joke, long since it's novelty, still forms a smirk.


I'm really unhappy lately, I think about suicide every day. Philisophically there's nothing stopping me from doing it, but I've always been weak and afraid and above all motionless, I don't act, I'm a vouyer and a lurker. Beyond that, ending your life from a scientific perspective is the most difficult thing to choose. More than scratching an itch, more than thirst and cold, avoiding death is strongest. So I admire greatly everyone who ends their lives.

Apparently I'm also an exhibitionist, for making myself public like this. I take respite in that I have no friends, and no family- I mean, this website lives outside myself, it isn't linked to my identity. For all you know, these could all be lies, ironic impersonations of a kind of character. So I should feel less shame than I do. That shame, it may be a clue that I won't really kill myself, even though I believe entirely that I would like to. Well, I'm naked masturbating on a highway.

  • angels egg review
  • may 2

    memory is a ghost the brain is a parasitical organ the body is a system conscioussness is hierarchichal. the world is real. thoughts are formed by comittee/through natural selection. consciousness dissipates/collapses upon death fracturing thus diminishing experience to levels close to neuter - negligable. all intents and purposes experience ceases or is transmutated unrecognizably if incorporated into new system. to be a strong willed person is to to have a strong will ie ability to destroy weaker thoughts ie natural selection ie the upper layer of thought that consolidates into a single unit ala monotheism is stronger than the fractured garbage noise and randomness that makes up the rapidly chaning sub-teranneun heirarchy ie to be better at the game. the change from poly to monotheism is a reflection to the strengthening of will and conscioussness. human beings are all one true gods and the subconsciouss hierarchy are lesser gods cucked and turned into followers/supporters. what is the schizophrenic? the emergence of a second equally strong consciousness that coexists with the original/central. the schizophrenic has stronger thoughts that barge into heaven the home of the one true god, the schizophrenic mind as it develops in young adulthood is the rapture of smaller souls into heaven. intrusive thoughts, hallucinations, multiple conscioussnesses. hallucinations? auditory and visual hallucinations: random hallucinations- garbled nonsense that seeps into the upper layer of the brain, truly random nonsensicle structures and reconfigurations of experience saved in the lower recesses of the brain bubbling up into sensory peception- voices of relatives, mundane dialogue - lowly beings that squak with no intelligence, no understanding of the semantic content other than recongizable repeatable structure and form consistent hallucinations - intelligence working towards an end, malicious benign quirky lovely satanic heavenly, they are all intelligent consolidations/systems working functionally, all dangerous - even if working towards happiness of one true god their existence is still a threat to a stable human as they are a growing power in a triangle system- simply dangerous to a singular ruler of the brain, other political systems may be functional or even desirable, up to individual. types of delusion weak:random, strong: consistent, all powerfull: the self, your identity, the experience of living, you. multiple personality disorder: civil war between despots. human being: crowd of thoughts. (violent random and self sorting:) human being: a hierarchy. the delusion of self: the strongest system upon systems upon systems. the subconscious ie insane death pit of violence is an elevator of thoughts desires memories and so on delivering to the self. the stomach is always sending messages to the brain, but only when starved of food are the messages successfully making it up the death elevator. an eater simply has a stronger stomach intelligence or a weaker elsewhere intelligence allowing the stomach to send more messages up to the brain. are dream characters conscious? there's definitely a consciouesness behind dream characters. when we are dreaming we have no free will. we are rendered dream characters too. the conscioussness we have when dreaming is maybe the same conscioussness that dream characters experience. we are a kind of dream character even when we are awake. our consciousness is informed by the systems that are underneath and behind us. why is our conscioussness centralized? why do we have a singular reality and identity? because we are at the top of the hierarchy? and when your position in that heirarchy is unstable you are schizophrenic? maybe...

    A person is so much affected by the period they abide to cast shadow on any idea of a consistent self. How a person changes between home and abroad, friends and family, indoors or out. How you can become enraptured and productive in some subject until some external circumstance shifts and your plans are thrown asunder. From high school to college to the workforce a persons identity can schism threefold. Even if one's values are unchanging motivation and passion can well and subside with the most arbitrary happenings. It feels like I'm unable to steer my own ship. Star_ said he started making tf2 videos in order to practice talking, and Gibbontake said he started making mlp videos so that he could make friends with the other people doing it. These two anecdotes, and with the then recent discovery of post-digibro vloggers, sparked the idea in my brain to start making youtube videos. "I want to change!" A year has passed since I made that decision? Hm. At age 16 I talked to no one. Not a single friend online or off, my senses of kinship and belonging was firmly planted in silently watchign youtube videos, silently reading imageboard posts, and replying in my head. This created a vidid inner world and a complete innability to interact with the outer world. There was one incident I couldn't stand in a line for ice cream without my heart kicking faster than a speecore track and my head growing hot to the touch, so I speedwalked away. A year later I did in fact have online friends, correspondants where one message would be sent a day, as a day was the amount of time it took me to completely read and make sure I'm currently interpereting their message, to write my own, and then continually look it over to make sure there was nothing wrong with it. As you can perhaps guess friendships from this time are now long gone. The era of my having online friends is one defined by constant anxiety and negative thoughts, contrasted to when I was completely alone and was actually at peace, though during that time I was constantly yearning for relationships of some kind. The cam whore is the ideal partner for modern people, they're someone who will act lovey dovey with you as you just stare silenty at her. you don't have to worry about what to say, or what she thinks of you, because there's no way you can mess things up. This all leads to a form of neurosis which H.G. Baynes has described as the “provisional life,” that is, the strange attitude and feeling that one is not yet in real life. For the time being one is doing this or that thing, but whether it is a woman or a job, it is not yet what is really wanted, and there is always the fantasy that sometime in the future the real thing will come about…With this there is often, to a smaller or greater extent, a savior complex, or a Messiah complex, with the secret thought that one day one will be able to save the world; the last word in philosophy, or religion, or politics, or art, or something else, will be found. This can go so far as to be a typical pathological megalomania, or there may be minor traces of it in the idea that one’s time “has not yet come.” The one thing dreaded throughout by such a typical man is to be bound to anything whatever. There is a terrific fear of being pinned down, of entering space and time completely, and of being the singular human being that one is. There is always the fear of being caught in a situation from which it may be impossible to slip out again for me i can be productive in auxilliary activities, writing music, watching movies, sketching absent-mindedly, but i absolutely cannot approach that which matters most to me, which is working on long-term projects. maybe in the complex of provisional life is whatever the most important thing is, it becomes untouchable. 2011. what does that year mean to you? For me it has an identity formed from various things: cool. Star_. i looked up to him and tried to imitate him in many ways and created an identity inspired by him because i thought that he was really cool. even the word niichts had that allure. the german gothic feeling of hard consonants, the double ii, and that it literally means nothing. as star explained it, nicht in german translates to nothing, and adding the extra i and the s at the end makes it literally mean nothing. perfect. i would use that double ii any place i could, in any username i could think of but it never quite had the same aura. everyone knows german words are cool. subahibi knowns. and the more cool things use german words the more cool german words become by assosiation. the sky is full of german words. the feeling i had when star won that 1v5 in the charity mixup is probably the closest ill be to knowing what its like to be a woman falling in love with a man. minor keys are cool. people say minor is sad and major is happy but really major is bright and minor is dark and dark is cooler than light. twilight is cool. my little pony is cool. my little pony is cool because of its assosiative identiy and because it is "ANTI" OR COUNTER. because liking a show for little girls is the opposite of what people respect, watching it anyway makes you cool. going against is cool. the word no is cool. think about the chad meme. the chad says yes when asked if he is doing something wrong, and says no when he is told to stop doing something wrong. this is the basis of based. on this basis the fan of war is the coolest weapon in tf2. this leans in to chuuni territory. id say subahibi is a chuuni game, because the part of me that loves it is my middle school self. chuuni is immaturity but immaturity is whats cool. war is about loyalty. when i was in middle school i thought mlp was cool because i was too scared to associate with the people who liked it. to fit in with peers i had to push myself into the zone of interests which made mlp unavailable, which gave it a deathly allure and exclusivity. the pathetic thing in hindsight was that i didnt fit in even with my modified behavior but its important to note i didnt have a choice. the influence of others was so strong that i literally think it may have been impossible for me to act freely. peer pressure and so on. think of the coolest song its probably in a minor key like literally every shiina ringo song is minor. mlp was cool because a cute girl in elementary school liked it. my best friend who i betrayed exactly like kimika liked mlp. he drew minecraft crafting recipes in 3x3 grids for me to use when i got home. i watched him roll around on the concrete fighting with someone in a laughing crowd of my friends. at the end of elementary school moving on to middle school a friend told me "stop hanging out with him next year. youll get bullied with him" by the third year he had dropped out, any relationship we had was completely gone. thankfully it was by that time that my replacement friends were now somewhere between aquantices and bullies. you see, it turned out i wasnt actually their friend, which i already should have realized as i was something like a whipping boy with hopes of promotion. no recompense for traitors.

  • random vn transcripts