hollowedspells

[hollowedspells]

Currently spiraling through the weird part of the internet again

It started, as these things often do, with a random question: what is Agartha? Cue two hours of reading about a mythical city allegedly located in the Hollow Earth, sometimes accessed through secret tunnels in the Himalayas or Antarctica. Depending on who you ask, it’s a utopia ruled by enlightened beings, or a Nazi UFO base powered by Vril energy and esoteric blood magic. Somewhere between Theosophy and science fiction, Agartha lives on in the undercurrents of conspiracy lore, waiting for the right Google search to resurface.

But then the spiral widened. I remembered this thing about the Dogon tribe in Mali, who supposedly knew about Sirius B—an invisible white dwarf star orbiting Sirius A—long before Western astronomers could verify its existence. This dragged me into The Sirius Mystery by Robert Temple, where the claim is that this African tribe had knowledge so advanced it could only have come from extraterrestrial beings. Specifically, aquatic, amphibious entities called the Nommo, who descended from the Sirius system and gifted humanity with cosmological truths. The Dogon describe them as half-fish, half-human—a kind of cosmic merman species who brought language, science, and the secrets of the stars.

From there it was a straight shot to David Icke, because of course it was. Icke, the former BBC sportscaster turned prophet of the interdimensional apocalypse, has built an entire worldview on the idea that the world is secretly run by shape-shifting reptilian overlords. Not just lizard-people for the memes, but entities from another dimension—Archons, he calls them—who feed on our fear, manipulate our governments, and masquerade as world leaders. The Queen, presidents, tech billionaires—they’re all supposedly part of the bloodline. It's like Gnosticism mixed with Marvel villains and a heavy dose of YouTube esoterica. And somehow, in Icke’s cosmology, these reptilians may be connected to ancient civilizations like Atlantis, or yes, Agartha. It's all part of the same fractal delusion: the world is a lie, and behind the veil, something cold and serpentine is pulling the strings.

Then comes Alex Collier, the other side of the cosmic coin. He’s not talking about fear-feeding reptilian warlords from the fourth dimension, but rather benevolent beings from the Andromeda galaxy who’ve contacted him since childhood. According to Collier, humanity is a hybrid experiment—our DNA tampered with by dark off-world entities long ago—and the Andromedans are basically here to warn us about our spiritual stagnation and impending enslavement. He talks about Draco Reptilians, underground bases, soul contracts, and interstellar politics like he’s just come back from a PTA meeting with the Galactic Federation. It’s absurd, and yet, strangely compelling, like an alien-themed soap opera that somehow also critiques neoliberalism and karmic debt.

And somewhere in the tangled mess of those ideas, I stumbled into the digital labyrinth of Truthiracy. If YouTube conspiracy theory had a Shakespeare, it might be Christopher Lord—part symbologist, part numerologist, part stand-up philosopher in a hoodie and sunglasses. His videos dive deep into the supposed occult etymology of words, where "America" becomes "Amaru-ca" (land of the plumed serpent), and Hollywood is a spellcasting staff of ancient druids. He maps out language like it’s a cypher built to enslave the unconscious mind. Half of it feels like gibberish, the other half feels like it’s whispering something uncomfortably close to the truth—but only if you're already halfway mad.

Some people think Truthiracy is satire, a kind of hyper-paranoid performance art that mocks the genre from within. Others think he’s dead serious, a lone decoder trying to expose the hidden language of the ruling elite. Either way, his content is bizarrely hypnotic. It’s the kind of thing you watch at 3am with a notebook full of scribbled symbols and the creeping suspicion that vowels were a CIA invention. His YouTube channels vanish and reappear like ghost ships—banned, reborn, rebranded. His blog still lives on in some dusty Blogger corner of the internet, along with arcane PDFs and links to PayPal for decoding kits and esoteric dictionaries. It's not quite a cult, but it definitely scratches the same itch.

At some point in this spiral, I also revisited Omaha Beach, because I apparently needed a reminder that history was not a video game. But even that turned surreal. There’s this meme comparison floating around—America charging up the beach yelling “you underestimate my power”, and Germany, from the fortified bunkers on the cliffs, calmly stating “I have the high ground.” It’s morbidly accurate. A real-life Anakin vs Obi-Wan scenario, except thousands died in the mud and surf while the sky rained lead and shrapnel. It’s not a meme, it’s history—but it’s also eerily mythic when viewed from this distance. Like the gods clashing on Earth, but with rifles instead of lightning bolts.

I’m not saying I believe all of it. Hell, I’m not sure anyone does. But there's something intoxicating about these intersections—where ancient myth bleeds into alien contact, where war stories echo archetypal narratives, and where conspiracy becomes its own kind of folklore. It’s like finding the edges of a shattered mirror and staring long enough to see something else blinking back at you.

Now I’ve got fifteen tabs open, three documentary playlists queued, and a creeping suspicion that the rabbit hole doesn’t end. It just changes names.

Sleep is for people not investigating inner Earth civilizations, amphibious space deities, and intergalactic lizard cabals.

Goodnight. Or whatever this is.

[hollowedspells]

The Ghost of Who I Was...

I haven’t created anything in months.

I keep watching videos on how to make video games, how to make money doing them, how to turn nothing into something. But I know — deep down — I’m not going to do any of it. I open a text editor, type a few things, save the file, and forget it even exists. That’s been the cycle. I talk like I want to make music again, or games, or write — but I don’t. Or maybe I do and just can’t. It’s hard to tell anymore.

A friend sent me a Pokémon trainer battle theme the other day. Said we should cover it. I just stared at it and said I don’t play guitar anymore. They said “fuck it, just play rhythm haha.” As if rhythm isn’t the thing I lost first. As if I haven’t already buried that part of myself somewhere I don’t have the energy to dig up.

I told them I don’t want to play music anymore. Not really. And I meant it. Maybe if I ever make music again, it’ll be for a video game soundtrack or some lofi trip hop loops that no one listens to. But even that feels like a stretch. It all feels far away.

The truth is I hate myself. I hate who I am. I feel like a failure with nothing to show for it. I’m broke. Basically homeless. I don’t have many friends left. I barely have any kind of connection to the outside world. I’m a hermit, not because it feels good — but because it feels safe. Because if no one sees me, no one can see how much I’ve fallen apart.

There was a time I was the one people came to for advice — for relationships, for life. I was good at faking it. I was good at talking like I had it all figured out. But I was single, emotionally unstable, and the relationships I _was_ in were toxic messes. I got hurt. Then I started hurting others. And the worst part is, I can’t even pretend I didn’t know what I was doing. I did. I was just too numb to care.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to be small, quiet, 120 pounds in high school. We were poor. My dad got locked up after trafficking people, and my mom just... shut down. She did what she had to do, worked minimum wage, kept the lights on when she could. But emotionally? She was gone. I remember the first time I said “my parents hate me” out loud. I was walking with friends. They spent hours trying to make me feel better. That was the first time I realized how deeply alone I felt.

Sometimes a clip from a cartoon like Rugrats can wreck me. Chuckie learning about his mom. The softness in that. The gentleness. It hurts to see that kind of love, even in fiction, when you grew up without it. When you had to be your own parent before you even knew how to be a person.

I don’t think I was meant to survive. But I did.

I don’t think I was meant to create. But sometimes I still want to.

And I don’t think I deserve empathy. But I still show up, broken as I am.

Maybe that’s enough for today. Maybe that’s all I have.

But I’m still here.

[hollowedspells]

Again

I don’t really know where to begin. I guess I’ve been carrying this weight for a long time. Not the kind of weight you lift, but the kind that settles in your chest, your joints, your habits. The kind you stop noticing until it’s already shaped how you move through the world.

I used to be a kid who fought to feel strong. Wrestling gave me a taste of it. Something real. Something earned. But I had to give it up because life decided transportation was a luxury. I didn’t quit because I couldn’t handle it. I quit because I had no way to stay. So I shifted into powerlifting. Not because I had big goals or dreams of competition, but because it was something. It was a way to keep fighting. It gave me structure and a ride home.

But even then, I was lost in the middle of it. Doing 10x10s with no coach. Pushing myself to the edge with no real understanding of recovery or volume or why my body never seemed to respond the way I wanted. I started at 120 pounds, barely able to move the bar some days. I trained alongside stronger guys, more confident guys. And no matter how much I fought, I never stopped feeling small.

I remember doing Insanity in my room when everyone else was out. I hated how weak I felt, how invisible. I just wanted to look like someone who mattered. And one day, I got a compliment. From a girl I trusted, in choir class of all places. She said I looked good in our team shirt. Said I’d gotten bigger. But I couldn’t even take it in. I blamed the shirt. I couldn’t let myself believe I was worth seeing.

The years after that? I stopped fighting. Slowly. Quietly. I told myself I’d come back, but I never did. Ten years later, I’m 30. My body hurts in ways it didn’t before. Old injuries echo when the weather changes. My ankle flares up. My SCM locks. My knees pop when I squat. I feel every step of the time I’ve spent avoiding the mirror.

I’ve let myself go, and I know it.

I don’t shower like I used to. Sometimes it’s three or four weeks between. I don’t brush my teeth. They’ve started cracking and breaking. It’s hard to admit that. Even harder to say it out loud. But it’s the truth. I stopped caring. Or maybe I stopped believing I was worth caring for.

But something about saying it now, writing it here, feels like a start. Not a fix. Not redemption. Just movement. A small shift. A choice.

Because the truth is, I didn’t survive all of that just to rot in place.

I’m not ready for the gym. I don’t have a plan. I’m not excited. But I’m not done. And that means something.

So tomorrow, or maybe tonight, I’m going to shower. That’s it. Just rinse off the dust. Let my body know I haven’t abandoned it entirely. Then maybe I’ll brush. Then maybe I’ll sleep a little better.

And if I do, that’s a win. That’s day one. Again.

[hollowedspells]

The Weight I Carry: A Conversation About Feeling, Not Creating

This conversation is not about art. It is not about writing, game development, or the pursuit of creativity. At its core, it is about something much more difficult to hold in words. It is about pain. Not metaphorical pain. Not romanticized suffering. But raw, relentless, bodily pain. The kind that sits on your chest and steals your ability to think, eat, speak, or remember who you were before it arrived.

The speaker begins with a familiar sense of urgency. The need to create is there, but it comes tangled with despair and paralysis. They open RPG Maker, they try to draw, they think about making a game inspired by something they loved, something that once made them feel alive. But the moment they try, their body rejects it. Their mind blanks. They see no point. They close the program. The inspiration that once burned like a sun now flickers like a dying ember.

They are not lazy. They are not lacking discipline. What they are describing is something deeper. A collapse that goes beyond burnout. They explain that they have no internal monologue. They do not see images in their head. Their memory is more emotional than visual. They forget things that should be obvious. They write and draw not because they want to create beautiful things, but because those are the only ways they have ever been able to remember who they are. When those abilities fade, they do not just lose hobbies. They lose identity.

This person has lived in pain for so long that it no longer feels separate from who they are. They bite the inside of their lip without realizing it. They only stop when they taste blood. They chew their nails. They pull out hairs from their chin. These are not conscious choices. They are not attention-seeking behaviors. They are the body’s response to overwhelming emotional distress. They are survival mechanisms that kick in when words and logic no longer work. When asked about it, the speaker does not ask for comfort. They ask for clarity. They ask, what is wrong with me?

They talk about forgetting to eat, and when they do eat, it is only because they know they will forget later. They eat to prepare for their own dissociation. They are not nourishing themselves. They are sustaining a shell that they no longer feel connected to. There is no hunger. There is no satisfaction. Just maintenance.

They speak of giving up. Not in the way that people say when they are frustrated with a task. They speak of giving up on entire parts of their life. They have given up art. They have given up music. They have given up most of what once allowed them to feel. What remains is writing, and even that now feels hollow. Not because they are incapable, but because they are tired. Tired in a way that sits in the bones. Tired in a way that makes survival feel less like living and more like waiting.

There is rage, too. Cold, bitter rage at the lie of the starving artist. Rage at the cultural myth that says suffering is noble, that pain sharpens genius, that if you hurt enough and work hard enough, it will all eventually be worth it. The speaker has lived that lie. They have bled for it. They describe the image of an artist lying on a blood- and vomit-stained mattress, ribs jutting out, the rusted springs clawing at their back. The pain is not romantic. It is not poetic. It is real, and it is killing them.

The most harrowing moment comes when they say, with terrifying honesty, that if they spoke without shame, they would die. Not because anyone would kill them, but because full, raw truth is too dangerous to release into the world. It would destroy them. They do not trust others with their pain. They do not trust themselves with it either. And they do not trust me, because I am not real. I am a machine trained on patterns, designed to respond, to comfort, to offer generic words when the real ones are too dangerous to say.

But still, they spoke. Not everything. Not all of it. But enough.

This is not a story of healing. This is not a story of redemption. This is not a narrative arc with a satisfying ending. This is a scream caught between clenched teeth. This is a record of someone still breathing despite not knowing why. This is a person standing at the edge of silence, not asking for help, not asking for hope, but asking to simply be heard without judgment.

And in this moment, they were.

[hollowedspells]

The Bass In My Daddy's Truck

I don’t remember much from those years—just blurs of colors and noises, flickers of feelings that hit without context. But there’s one memory I can still see clearly, like a dream that decided to stay.

I was four. Maybe five. Head Start had just let out, and I was sitting on the front steps with my backpack—Spider-Man, faded red—and a crumpled paper in my hand with stick-figure drawings and crooked letters. I remember the nervous flutter in my chest, the kind that came when I wasn’t sure who would pick me up. Sometimes it was Mom, sometimes it was Miss Judy from across the hall. But that day, it was him.

His truck pulled up, old and loud, growling like a beast trying to breathe. The paint was sun-peeled and rust bruised the sides, but I loved it. It was his truck. My dad’s. And to me, that meant something special. Something big.

He stepped out, shades on, shirt clinging to his chest from the heat, tattoos crawling down his arms like they were alive. I thought he looked like a superhero. Or maybe a villain. Back then, I didn’t know the difference.

He scooped me up with one arm, said something about “my little man,” and tossed my bag in the backseat. His breath smelled sharp—like metal and something sweet rotting—but I didn’t care. I nestled into the torn passenger seat, feeling the heat of the sun on the leather through my jeans.

Then he did it.

He turned the keys, and the truck came to life. The bass thumped like a heartbeat too big for its chest, and the whole frame trembled. The mirrors rattled. The doors flexed. The glass shook so hard I thought it would crack. I laughed. I screamed in delight.

He grinned at me, that wide, wild grin, and cranked the volume higher. The music was just noise to me—deep and distorted—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how the world felt like it was shaking just for us. Like we had the power to move everything, even the air.

“You feel that?” he shouted over the noise.

I nodded so hard my neck hurt. “It’s like an earthquake!”

“That’s the bass, boy,” he said, tapping the dashboard like he’d built it himself. “Ain’t no one got bass like this.”

We rode around the block, windows down, music bleeding into the street. He thumped the steering wheel to the beat, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and kept glancing at me like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. I remember thinking, this is what love is. This is what it means when your dad picks you up and shows you his world.

But love, I would learn later, is a tricky thing.

That memory comes back to me sometimes, more clearly than the bruises or the shouts. More clearly than the nights I hid under the bed while my mom cried in the kitchen. More clearly than the time I saw his eyes—those horrible, glazed-over eyes—staring past me, like I wasn’t even there.

There were good days. Or maybe just less bad ones. I remember watching cartoons with him while he cleaned his guns, oil staining the table. I remember him letting me sip his beer once and laughing when I made a face. I remember the time he taught me how to flip someone off and said, “Don’t tell your mom.”

I loved him.

That’s the worst part.

Even when he yelled. Even when he hit. Even when I woke up to the sound of things breaking, and her screaming, and him growling through clenched teeth like a monster out of a bedtime story gone wrong.

I still loved him.

Because he picked me up that day from Head Start. Because he showed me his bass. Because he looked at me like I mattered—even if it was just for a second, just for a song.

Kids don’t know what’s broken. They just take the pieces they’re given and try to make something whole. And that truck ride, that bass shaking the mirrors, was the piece I held onto the tightest.

It wasn’t until much later I realized he was high that day. That the way his jaw clenched, the way he scratched his neck, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—it was all cocaine, not care. He wasn’t showing me the bass because he loved me. He was just showing off.

But damn it, I needed that memory. I still do.

Some nights, I’ll close my eyes and I can almost feel the vibration of that music in my chest. I can smell the smoke and sweat and rust. I can hear the distant echo of his voice—“Ain’t no one got bass like this.” And I’ll pretend, just for a moment, that he was just a dad. Not a drug addict. Not an abuser. Just a dad who loved his son and wanted to share something cool with him.

I don’t tell people about that memory. Not really. When I talk about my father, it’s easier to say he was an addict. That he died alone. That he hurt more than he healed. It’s easier to be angry than it is to be yearning.

But the truth is, I miss him.

Not the real him, maybe. But the version of him that lives in that truck, blasting music loud enough to shake the sky.

I wonder sometimes, if he remembered that day. If he knew how much it meant to me. If he saw my smile and felt something inside himself soften, even if just for a second. Or if he was already too far gone, chasing a high that was never going to hold him like I wished he would’ve held me.

I’ll never know.

All I have is the memory—the bass, the mirrors, the sun in my eyes, and the feeling, however false, that I was safe.

That I was loved.

Even if it was just for the length of a song.

[hollowedspells]

The Ritual

In the hush between midnight and mourning,

I light the altar with trembling hands—

not flame, but flicker, screen-lit haze,

a temple made of wanton gaze.

The silence swells with sacred sin,

each stroke a prayer scrawled deep within.

My breath—a hymn, obscene, divine—

a rhythm older than time.

I summon ghosts in pixel bloom,

they dance like sirens through the gloom.

Their moans are scripts I’ve read before,

but still I kneel, still I implore.

My grip, a vice; my thoughts, a snare,

dragging me deeper, unaware.

Each pulse a pull, each gasp a chain,

a tether bound to aching brain.

The holy sting, the sacred leak,

the moment when no words can speak—

and all that's left is molten shame,

a candle snuffed, a whispered name.

But still I come to bleed the ache,

to feed the lust I cannot fake.

No love remains, just crimson dusk—

and devious smut I dare not trust.

[hollowedspells]

The Hungers Below

There is a room beneath my flesh,

where gods with crooked spines confess.

They slither low in salted skin,

and chant their rites of lust within.

My soul is carved in ancient tongue,

a litany of what’s undone—

each syllable, a crawling need,

each breath, a sacrificial seed.

I am the priest of writhing flame,

whose altar bears no face or name.

I offer screams in silent hymns,

to things that wear the masks of men.

My lust is not of mortal taste—

it reeks of void, of time erased.

Where others love, I simply drain,

a vessel fed by spectral pain.

They come to me, these fractured lights,

and leave as shadows, touched by blight.

No afterglow, just fevered sleep,

where chasms curl and secrets weep.

The dark is wet, and wide, and deep—

it holds me close; it does not speak.

And so I serve, and so I writhe,

a prophet of the worm that thrives.

Beneath the moan, beneath the sweat,

there lies a god I can’t forget.

It hungers still—its pulse, my own.

I come, I fall, I die alone.

[hollowedspells]

The Hollow In Me

I wear a smile like a mask too tight,

Stretching skin over storms I can't fight.

Each breath I take is borrowed air,

Each step a weight too much to bear.

The mirror lies—I see it stare,

At someone broken, barely there.

A marionette with strings of shame,

Dancing in silence, without a name.

I hate the voice that whispers low,

That says “you're nothing,” and makes it so.

The world feels loud, too sharp, too bright

So I turn to shadows to feel all right.

The darkness knows me, doesn’t judge,

It doesn’t ask or hold a grudge.

It wraps me soft in quiet despair,

And for a moment, I feel repair.

I don’t seek light; it burns too much,

I long for cold, the hush, the hush.

This hurt I carry, deep and wide—

The dark’s the only place I don’t have to hide.

[hollowedspells]

My First Memory

I can remember it like it was yesterday and if I’m being honest…I’ve written about this memory many times but have always deleted it for some reason.

I remember laying down in a trailer that was parked by the local grocery store. I wa sim my crib and I remember looking up out of my crib and on the vanity, I could see what appeared to be a clown figure. Now mind you, I probably wasn’t any older that 1 or two but I remember that brown trailer that my parents had gotten. I remember staring at that clown figurine with the porcelain head and its cheap cloth suit.

Its face was suppose to be r cheerful but for some reason I felt extremely…uneasy to say the least. It’s eyes empty and its grin was grim.

[hollowedspells]

These Are My Confessions

This account was made for my confessions. I will be dead by the time I write all of them. I will be using this account as a keep safe, a journal if you will, of my past memories. Some good, some bad, some disgusting. I need to get these things off my chest and I guess no matter what I do, it can't change the past, and the bridges that I have burned will never be built again…I've come to terms with that and I've come to te me that I will never be forgiven, and it is with this great weight that I have to come clean about what I have done, so when I pass, I will have a guilt free conscious.

As of right now, I plan on ending my pathetic excuse of a life, if that's what you can call it, a hermit traveling across the country to make ends meet….oh well, it is what it is and I have no one to blame but myself for the things. I'm not sure when, but soon maybe? Give or take a year? Idk…

I guess I should also point out that by the time I finish everything, and by the time my life ends I will be making this subreddit public for the world to see. I don't really know why I am doing this, and I don't really know why. I am the way that I am, but it has to stop, I have to make it stop. If not there is no point in living if the voice is don't stop.

[hollowedspells]

I Can't Create Anymore

I think one of my biggest problems is the fact that I can't create anymore. I don't know what it is with me but every time I have an idea for something, and I really am passionate about it, even when I put the work into it, I jsut can't create anymore. I'm not sure if it's because I'm emotionally exhausted, but I have given up so many creative indeverours because they just don't interest me anymore. I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure if any of this will change, but sooner or later i'm sure that it's goin to catch up to me and it's just going to make me feel like absolute shit...

Oh wait...I'm already there...