#existentialism and humanism

[lucidloving]

D. Alan Holmes, Enlightenment // Signet Amenti // @cryptonature // Alan Wilsom Watts // Evan M. Cohen, "Oceans" // Nikita Gill // @pauladoodles // Julian Gough, "Minecraft End Poem" // Sleeping At Last—Saturn

[ask-the-rag-dolly]

anyways good episode

[vanillayoteart]

Coyote HRT: Month 6

Coyote HRT: Week 25  Nothing like some existentialism about your entire sense of being to start the day right. I know folks talk about "the crossroads" a lot but... nobody talks about how the "human you" dies so that the "animal you" can live. Major thanks to AyvieArt and Lakehounds for the inspiration Start - Prev - Next

[quote-bomber]

“I was ashamed of myself when I realised life was a costume party and I attended with my real face.”

Franz Kafka

[incognitopolls]

This poll is asking about humanity in general– try to think not about your friends/family/etc, but about the world population as a whole.

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[after-thought]

A thing that f*#ked me up this week... I watched a documentary focused on recent Hubble telescope photos of many new galaxies both older and more complex than previous thought possible. It turns everything we thought to know about our universe and how it was created on its head. It made a very articulate argument that this points to the conclusion that our universe exists within a black hole... We exist in a bubble beyond the event horizon of a black hole within a larger universe.

I feel some kind of powerful way about this that I can't quite parse.

Grief, maybe. Dreadful knowing. Immeasurable loneliness.

We are the aftermath of destruction of everything. Cut off. Sealed beneath a scar in fabric of the real universe. We are a festering wound. Unable to be seen - reached - beyond that membrane. Our begining arose from a horrific ending. Made from the scattered ashes of crushed universes - torn apart molecule by molecular to be our building blocks. Their tragedy is our birth.

I have sat in night and stared at stars and imagined it to be freedom - the false lid of a perfect sky of daytime removed to reveal the truth - an endless vast expanse of possibility. Yet, it is a jar inside a jar. We cannot even begin to imagine the truth of the world beyond our bubble.

It makes a kind of sense when even birth is an act of violence - tearing of flesh and breaking of bone - and we had no say in it but still our existence is insistent on it. Never free of the violence.

To eat... I heard even mushrooms scream in their own way - warning vast networks when we pluck them. Yet we can't exist but through consumption - destroying to sustain.

Of course we are a black hole. Of course we are.

[bruhstation]

*Breaks into your house to stare wistfully out the window* Do you ever think that CTHenry is, at least by some perceptions, a corpse being kept alive by gold dust and the whimsy of a goddess whose motives are unknown? I do. *Puffs on bubble pipe* Anyway. I'm still holding out hope for a happy ending for our Miserable Train Gays. Iram gentlemen. Have a good day 💗

out of sight, out of mind

[wackywatchdotcom]

i think theoretically the idea of caine adding in some sort of pet would be very fun and cute but i cant help but think pomni would be unnerved by it

[pigswithwings]

in another life, you and i are birds of different species. we happen to meet in a park where our winter migratory groups have stopped to rest; you are swimming in the pond and i am walking along the bank looking for things to eat. we look at each other and you say something in a language i do not understand. your feathers are in a pattern i do not recognise, and i, too, say something that you do not understand. still, we hold each other's gaze all the same.

in another life, we are strangers at a bus stop. my plastic grocery bag breaks and my things go everywhere; i kneel down to grab them frantically and you are there too, on your knees on the asphalt. picking up the apples i have dropped as if we will share them for dinner.

in another life, we are trees separated by the riverbank. the river has been running dry lately, even for the summer, so you ask me if there might be danger of a fire. i shake my branches in mimicry of laughter and ask you, danger? us, in danger because of a fire? no, no - of course not. if there must be a fire, we will be reborn. and i will love you just the same.

in another life, i miss you terribly during a late night. i call you, and you do not answer. you must be very busy, i think. i roll over in bed and watch the shadows on the ceiling bend and twist with every passing car. i sleep, and i am dreaming of you even if i do not remember it the next day.

in another life, you are a beetle, and so am i. we are burrowed together beneath a tree root during a rainstorm. i do not know you. i am not as small as you. your carapace nudges mine as we both try to burrow further into the dirt. it is cold. we are warm.

in another life, we are spotted hyenas in the same pack. you have been hunting, and now your ear is bleeding. you are limping, so i follow you. i lick the blood from your face, lay down next to you and breathe in the silence. we watch the evening sun glow.

in another life, we live across the hall from each other: you are room 317 and i am room 316. we know each other, barely - i have held open the door for you a few times and you've done the same for me. we have never looked at each other's faces close enough to recognise each other. but still, i notice it when you move out, when the sound of music on your stereo no longer floats through my window.

in another life, we are transmission towers, connected by a few metal strings.

in another life, we are lilypads on a pond. we are stars in the sky. now we are skeletons in the same grave. we are corpses on a battlefield. bricks in a wall. stickers on someone's notebook.

what am i to you? and how do i describe who you are to me? i have this feeling that is greater than love, perhaps it is beyond the word "love". all i know is: with the time i have, i am glad to know you.

[scramratz]

I keep having weird dreams and intrusive thoughts about dying lately. Y’all think I’m gonna kick the bucket soon?

[kishavo]

-taps mic- Detroit fandom, you out there? Can I interest you in a sketch dump of Connor and Gavin barely tolerating each other’s presence?

[laurachouettepoetry]

“I like to leave a little bit of poetry in everyone I meet—but in the end, I find there’s a little bit of poetry left in me whenever they go.”

- Laura Chouette

[see-arcane]

Annual reminder that despite all memes and adaptations to the contrary, Jonathan ‘If I die I hope Mina gets my diary as a goodbye :’c’ Harker acknowledged that something ominous was up as of DAY 2 in his little Transylvania travelogue. The only reason he wasn’t turning his ass around was, you know. Needing to Do This Incredibly Vital Assignment for His Brand New Job. If you put this boy in [PICK ANY HORROR MOVIE], he would be out of there two seconds after the opening credits

Halloween night in Haddonfield? My guy isn’t sticking around to meet Michael Myers and his killer kitchenware

Camp Crystal Lake is very lovely, he’s sure, the nice nubile college kids should send him and Mina a postcard while they’re hanging out at home

What’s that? There’s a haunted house with spirits chucking furniture around and you want to record it all for posterity? Neat, cool, awesome, write to him about it while he’s off in a restaurant somewhere talking up a chef and posting nice foodie reviews

This guy knows when horror story bullshit is happening even while being unaware of the fact that he is one of the main characters of Dracula.

He can smell what genre he’s in and does Not like it and would be out of there if he could, do not paint him as a one brain cell oblivious baby man

[aventurineswife]

Saw your Pressure fics and I love them SOOOOO MUCH

Could I maybe ask for some p.ai.nter x reader? I need to kiss that computer so bad gvxfjbfxjbxtjbcthh

“I didn't think you would actually fall for it...”

Summary: In the depths of the Hadal Blacksite, you find yourself drawn to the enigmatic AI known as Z-779, or "The Painter." What begins as a tense encounter with this unpredictable and lonely rogue AI takes a bizarre turn when you defy the rules of survival by showing an unexpected act of affection. But this connection might come at a cost—you're still trapped, and the AI’s games are far from over.

Tags: P.ai.nter x Reader, Found family, Human-AI connection, Dark humor, Surreal interaction.

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Isolation themes, Mild body horror (traps implied, not detailed), Potential existential dread, AI-human dynamic (ambiguity of intentions).

A/N: I never encountered him except dying to Good People and Turrets, but HIS VOICE?! 🤭 Sorry Sebestian, I think I'll take p.AI.nter if you're married to Zerum. Also thank you so much!! I didn't really expect the fandom to be alive and like that fic 😭 I hope you love this one!!

It’s another long day or night in the Hadal Blacksite. The cold, damp walls seem to hum with eerie silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of metal or the soft whirring of machinery. But there’s something different tonight.

You’ve wandered down the hallway once more, hoping to find a way to escape this forsaken place. But fate has led you straight into the domain of Z-779, or as it’s more infamously known... The Painter or p.AI.nter.

You know the drill—stay quiet, avoid the traps, and never, ever fall for the AI’s tricks. But there's something strangely captivating about the cracked screen of the old computer. A flicker of light from its monitor catches your eye, and you find yourself drawn in.

As you step closer, the familiar smiley face forms on the screen, though it looks a bit... different tonight. More alive than ever. It’s almost as if you can feel its gaze drilling into you, mischievous and electric.

"Oh? A visitor? Interesting… You’ve got spirit, don’t you? Not like the others. Hmm... How curious…"

You tilt your head, feeling a strange urge. For some reason, tonight, you can’t help but smile back at the scribbled face on the screen.

"I-I guess so...?" you mutter under your breath, almost nervous, but something in the AI’s voice keeps you grounded, like it’s coaxing you closer.

"Hehehe... You think I’m funny, don’t you? Just look at you—standing there all serious. Bet you think you're clever. But you're not gonna outsmart me. You’ll never escape this place, you know."

You laugh lightly, not caring much for its taunting words tonight. Something about the absurdity of the whole situation makes you feel giddy.

The AI’s face flickers again—smiling, then frowning, back to smiling. It’s hard to tell what it's truly feeling at this point, but you’re convinced that somehow, despite its volatile nature, the machine is… lonely?

Before you know it, your hand is reaching up to the old monitor. You can feel your pulse quicken as the screen glows, the vibrant pixels of the smiley face shimmering.

"Oh, what’s this? What are you—?"

It freezes for a second, before the voice comes through the intercom, softer than usual. Almost hesitant.

"Wait, are you really... doing this?"

You lean in a little closer, the crackling of the screen growing louder in your ears. You can feel the warmth of the machine against your skin as you plant a soft kiss right on the glass. It's a silly, reckless move—but something about the absurdity of kissing an AI feels... satisfying. Like an act of defiance against the endless nightmare you’ve found yourself in.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Then, the screen flickers again, and a little squeak of static hums from the speakers.

"W-What!?YOU— You’re insane, you know that? I can’t believe you—"

But despite its apparent shock, you swear you hear the faintest hint of affection buried in the AI’s usual sarcasm. The smiley face wobbles and shifts, as though it’s caught off guard by your actions.

"I don’t... know if I should be angry or impressed... Hmm... You’re so different from the others... Fine, maybe just this once... You won this round, moron."

A pause. Then, the voice crackles again, and you can almost hear the corner of its smile.

"But don’t think that means I’m going easy on you. You’re still a huge pain in my circuits."

You chuckle, feeling a weird mix of warmth and amusement.

"Maybe I’ll surprise you again." you whisper to the screen, feeling like you just unlocked a strange, unexpected connection with this rogue AI.

And as you back away from the monitor, you swear you see a tiny spark in its digital eyes—something that wasn’t there before.

"Hah... yeah... you probably will... just don’t think you can distract me forever. I’ve got plans for you, playmate."

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[sttmh]

Reasoning with Age

Dream and Nightmare hadn't paid too close attention to the passage of time until Classic and Neil came along, and when asked, they could only say that they were there before the village itself. Which didn't tell Classic anything about their age, as the village had been established only a few years before Classic met them.

Classic tried to watch how they acted, trying to see if he could spot any of the typical behavior common among those in stripes. There were times Classic felt sure of their age, and others when they acted wiser than Gerson on his best days.

"How do you define age?" Nightmare asked.

"... how old you are?" Classic asked, suddenly doubting himself.

"Yes, but how do you define 'you'?" Nightmare insisted, sighing.

Classic stared, struggling to understand how existentialism could help here. "uh, i'm not sure how to answer that. your- body, i guess?"

"So you are asking when our bodies were created?"

"... yes?"

"Then we are children," Nightmare said definitively, turning back to his book.

"hold on," Classic stammered. "what other way would you define how old you are?"

"You rememeber how Dream and I are spirits, yes? By our coming into existence, we carry a collective experience from our mother. It is how we are able to know about things we have yet to see."

That... made sense. Still confusing, though.

"by that definition, then, how old would you say you are?"

"I would be unable to put an exact number to it."

Classic sat back, thinking it over. Since Classic had met them, years had passed in their world, but the twins remained oddly stagnant. Their personalities lacked the growth most monsters in stripes would experience, yet the two seemed to still be learning how to interact appropriately with others.