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[spatch-babbity-blog]

Minecraft Gothic

- NEW WORLD. You awaken into the long dream. A land full of promise, unsullied by the cruel hands of God. It is not a cold place, but you are about to make it so.

- The world is old, very, very old. Older than the gods. And yet it is new once again. They aren’t here now and it is reborn into its innocence.

- You feel that there’s something you’re not remembering. A memory, an identity, long ago. but it is gone now. The slate is wiped clean each time you die and there is no use trying to go back again.

- No matter how much you search, you are the only one of your kind. The villagers, you discover, are human. And yet you cannot speak to them. You are alien, a god cast to earth. You do not belong here, among living things.

- Are you the sole survivor of some forgotten devastation? Were there once more like you? The loneliness is killing you. Immortality is only a gift if you have a purpose to fulfill.

- You are hounded by the nagging feeling that someone has been here before you. Evidence reveals itself in torches placed in untouched caves and villages already ransacked. You ignore it.

- The music is as warm and familiar to your ears as a mother’s lullaby. It holds you. It whispers, “do not worry. you have been here before and that is alright”.

- You are cruel to the world. You hurt it, kill it, burn it. Yet it still loves you. The universe loves you.

- The dragon is the last link to your memories, your lost identity. You slay her anyway. Who knows what you could have been before? You are afraid of the stranger who lived in your skin.

- The End. How fitting, you think. This is the End of the Old World, the final piece spared from destruction only for you to close the door forever. And now it, too, is ending.

[spatch-babbity-blog]

In Pursuit of Serotonin

     “So, how would you like to spend your time here today?”

    Dr. Langsford peered at me from across the weathered coffee table. Her smile was serene and hopeful, but it held a tired kind of longing I felt little empathy towards. Her words rang in my ears painfully, steering me towards distraction. No part of this conversation gripped me, and I longed for the freedom of parting remarks and gratuitous handshakes. The gilded oak door sang to me a song of seduction. Instead, I found myself scrutinizing the asinine piece of furniture that kept us apart.

    It was small and stout; hardly useful for any practical activity for which one might require a table. The harsh, broad strokes of white paint had been applied in such a way as to appear effortless or chic, but it felt out of place on something so utterly useless. The strange sense of formality the squat little counter put forth was almost draining. In a way, entire office seemed to center around the upkeep of appearances, with the cheery lavender walls and the positive messages scrawled in handwriting far too even. The armchairs, however overstuffed, were perhaps the only things aware of their surroundings and the role they played in the forced conversations that floated above them.

    No matter where you sit in a therapist’s office, it feels like a couch.

    The feigned sincerity of it all grasped my senses firmly, and I pasted a smile upon my face.

     “Well… what is there left to say? I suppose,” my brain fell comfortably upon its faithful mechanism of deflection. “I suppose it’s a good thing to not have anything to talk about during therapy.” A chuckle, smooth as if borne of real pleasure, followed this remark.

     Dr. Langsford smiled, crossing her legs and taking a long sip of her coffee. “That’s true!” she beamed. “You’ve made excellent progress. I can hardly believe this is our last session!”

    I couldn’t fight a grin. That’s what really endeared Dr. Langsford to me, I think. Her optimism and unabashed glee.

    It had been almost a year since I’d stepped through that oak door for the first time. If someone had taken photographs of that morning and this one and pinned them up next to each other, it may have seemed as if they’d come from two completely different lives.

    Of course, the catalyst of this great change wasn’t hours spent discussing “healthy habits” or “positive coping methods”, however helpful they’d proved themselves later on. It wasn’t a great revisualization of the walls within which I abided. It wasn’t any kind of personal achievement at all, in fact; therapy was really only a cog in the machine that was my own acceptance and euphoria and growth. What set this contraption moving was something (or, I imagine, someone) entirely different.

     The day I left Dr. Langsford’s office for the last time and tasted the sunlight of a crisp, early spring morning, I felt closest to the innocence I used to imagine only came from a distant youth. I was free and I was happy, and the world had at last been opened to me like a budding carnation taking to the sun.  

[spatch-babbity-blog]

SOMEONE

find me a fuckin girlfriend alright thanks babes 

[spatch-babbity-blog]

Why is it that you’re afraid to ask for what lights you up? Why is it that you are denying yourself to feel happiness and love? At the end of the journey there won’t be a prize for those who have suffered the most and there won’t be a punishment for those who have experienced all the greatness that life has to offer. Choose and create. Don’t let social constructs numb your awareness.

[spatch-babbity-blog]

occasionally the universe orders one of its many snipers to fire a warning shot at me. not to cause any (physical) harm, mind you. they’re just reminders that the universe hates me and could snuff out my puny little life anytime it wishes.

today that warning shot came in the form of my microwave burrito being completely empty. no filling. just tortilla.

[spatch-babbity-blog]

hey

hey you

yeah you

you’re really valid

today and all of the days

just remember that

thanks

[spatch-babbity-blog]

I wish i had an even more vague void than the internet to scream into