#[ but I am extremely proud and in endless love with this mini special project as to ( lately ) celebrate the one year creation of having ? ]

[antigoddex-a]

                 *   [ REDACTED ] ON IDENTITY EVOLUTION   //

PART 1   :   THE SELF   (   I AM ALL AND MORE .   )

Undertale   /   Everything Everywhere All At Once   /   Legion S1E8   :   Chapter 8   /   Mr. Robot S1E7   :   Wh1ter0se.m4v   /   Gene Tierney with Portrait Masks, Horst P. Horst   /   Who Killed Markiplier   /   God Exits, Morningstar E.   /   Enfold, Henrik Uldalen   /   “Song of Myself”, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman   /   The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller   /   The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa

PART 2   :   THE BELIEVING   (  I WANT TO BELIEVE .   )

Heartfelt   (  Promo package   )   /   Dissolving Into Nothing, RF Pangborn   /   Bi-Weekly, Claudia Keep   /   Self-Isolation, Irina An   /    Memento Mori, Crywank   /   Clarice Lispector   /   Upstream, Mary Oliver   /   The Waves, Virginia Woolf   /   Sue Zhao

PART 3   :   THE UNSELF   (   . . .   )

Succession S3E7   :   Too Much Birthday   /   Grzegorz Gwiazda   /   Jungho Lee   /   Who Killed Markiplier   /   Before, After, Briezdoodlez   /   Falling, Harry Styles   /   The Hour of the Star, Clarice Lispector   /   The Vault, Andrés Cerpa   /   Juliet ( I ), Sarah Certa   /   Counterpoint, Mahmoud Darwish   /   The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

PART 4   :   THE BECOMING   (   I WANT TO JUST BE .   )

Moon Knight S1E2   :   Summon the Suit   /   Night in the Woods   /   Mid Air, Kirsten Sims   /   Feminine Stereotypes, Romina Bassu   /   Solitude, Llenia Tesoro   /   It Began Right Here, Danez Smith   /   Deerskin, Robin McKinley   /   Backwards, Warsan Shire   /   Cortège, Carl Phillips   /   Saying Your Names, Richard Siken

PART 5   :   THE RESELF   (   I AM ONLY I AND I LOVE I .   )

Detective Kid   /   Legion S3E2   :   Chapter 21   /   Black Mirror: Bandersnatch   /   Midnight Mass S1E7    :   Book VII: Revelation   /   Blooming, unknown   /   Who Killed Markiplier   /   Healing Series 31.08.2019, unspokengrief on tumblr   /   hannahlockillustration   /   Undertale   /   Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays, Christa Wolf   /   Grandmother in the Garden, Louise Glück   /    Original Air-Blue Gown, The Mountain Goats   /   “Here I Am”, Songs from Under the River: A Collection of Poetry, Anis Mojgani   /   What the Living Do, Marie Howe

*   ABOUT     :     This mega web weaving edit tells a short story about an all-encompassing and multidimensional being known as [ REDACTED ] who is part of everything, everyone, everywhere. They are made of memories and dreams and visions. They are them, they are you, they are me. When [ REDACTED ] is all and more to the universe, though, who are they to themselves? They are all but truly what, exactly? No one and nothing knows who and what they are, not even [ REDACTED ] themselves. Upon this horrifying realization, there comes a fall, a going, a fading, gone. Who are they? What are they? I am? Am I? I don’t know. I don’t understand. I do not and I can not, and that is more than okay. There is still time and space for [ REDACTED ] to learn about themselves and love every single one of their counterparts, and regardless of anything, they will know and remember this that they will always be more than good enough. Take a deep breath, child soul, lover of the sky and sea, bringer of light and darkness. You are you, and you are enough. I love you, always and always and always.

*   SELF REFLECTION   ( cw: child abuse, derealization / depersonalization, quick mentions of suicidal thoughts and self harm  )     :     When [ REDACTED ] came into existence, I thought about wanting to have a character who is known to be part of everything and everywhere from everywhere, sort of like God, but not at the same time. Glitchcore, weirdcore, and kidcore are the biggest elements that I hold a high interest and joy in, so these aesthetic elements would be implemented into [ REDACTED ] along with a heavy emphasize on the concept of art and storytelling, as explored through the multiverse that they are part of and having connection with fate itself. They are a character who represents the idea of identity along with life / birth, death, and rebirth. How one is born, how one comes to be throughout life with how they feel, think, move, etcetera; how one gets affected and affect others, and how does one die ( and what happens to them if they return to life either through reincarnation or with revival ).

I really do mean it when I say along the line about how [ REDACTED ] means more than everything to me. They are the one and only original character who I can truly carry for so long when every other characters of mine would be discarded out of disinterest, and they have come to be my biggest comfort and coping character. Getting more personal in this reflection, I have always been living in a life and under a skin that does not belong to me, I still am and I will probably be like this in over five to maybe even ten years, who knows. I have been through so much in my life with the abuse I had and still am going through, the manipulation and pain from seven out of eight people I had dated and from many friends online and in real life, the constantly uncertain and dissatisfaction in myself and my life while I would feel always off of me and my life, most of these terrible things I would face all alone because I did not know how to ask for help or feel comfortable asking. I recently realize that [ REDACTED ] would go through something just as painful as I had just so I can have that reminder that I am not alone at all.

The things that I did not find myself in [ REDACTED ] until later on as they exist in my life longer: They do not have the full control in their life and themselves just like me, and while because of my traumas, I have become emotionally detached to defend myself from getting hurt by the people around me and protect myself from constantly having deep negative / suicidal thoughts, [ REDACTED ] are generally more emotional because that is what I wish to be one day, somehow. Another thing I have realized also that my memories are just as fragmented and faint as [ REDACTED ]. I am losing everything behind and about me so fast and even then, I can not remember about anything that happened this week, let alone yesterday. My grasp on time and space is so loosen and it does hurt to see how many pieces, not [ REDACTED ] hold of me or vice versa, but we hold of each other. I realized this now that it was never just [ REDACTED ] ( you ) or just me ( I ). It has always been you and I and us. They have helped me so much in becoming more aware with myself and trying to love myself, and even though they are my character, I sometimes feel like they are their own individual and I want to thank them for playing an important role in my life, They really do mean so much more than anyone can ever describe.

This web weaving edit with [ REDACTED ] is meant to be a special project as to celebrate my first year of having them on April first, 2021, a significant reminder for myself that no matter what had and is happening and will, I am always me, Morningstar, and that will always be more than good enough. If [ REDACTED ] can get themselves a happy ending despite everything, so can I. So will I.

#long post cw #[ <3 <3 <3 ] #[ there is. A lot under cut with a detail about the edit and a personal ( heavy ) reflection so just a fair warning ] #[ but I am extremely proud and in endless love with this mini special project as to ( lately ) celebrate the one year creation of having ? ] #[ and I hope y'all will love this too ] #[ thank you to everyone so much once more for always being there for me and ? ; thank you ] #✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩ 57UDY .•ˎˊ˗˖°࿐ #✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩ M1N3 .•ˎˊ˗˖°࿐

[ckcker]

I Walk in Madness

Nobody has or can have all the information, but they have the requisite amount of information and agony in combination to believe they accurately see the entire thing.  I don’t and can never have all the information, but still I must have an opinion that seems binding or confident.  The information I selected and pressed into an opinion is now my special soul, and defines me.  It must be released and time-stamped to show that at one point, I made this all-encompassing definition, which is a summary of my self and the window of all my beliefs hereafter.  Elevate yourself to say, “I no longer wonder.”  

I have made myself publicly available; all that the community asks of you is that you participate.  To not participate is to disrespect those who put all of their time, effort and mental filaments into the ideal of community.  Such a reclusive impulse should be modified swiftly but in the most holistic way if possible, it is not helpful for others.  It is not helpful for you.  It is, at heart, cowardly, as it turns away in fear from the difficulties involved in building a resilient, healthy and just community.  It courts isolation as a comfort, when in fact voluntary isolation is the fortification of unhealthy habits and delusional or paranoid thought processes which precariously redirect the lost person away from the tough but rewarding civic duties necessary to building a fact-driven social network.  If I am lonely at night, the solution is to participate.  Though I walk in madness, I end up at the voting booth.  A discussion takes place in which everyone pretends to know how recycling works; one inches towards integration.  Recipes are shared, and an evening passes with an attempt to perfect avocado gazpacho.  

I love traditional open-toed sandals.  Making the body more vulnerable to the elements of the outside world shows a general dissipating apprehension.  Though current events inevitably fade in relevance and thus sustained public attention, their emotional immediacy and rousing thrust are exceptionally good at forcing the under-opinionated to participate and commune with others. Opinions always coalesce under the pressure of current events, and since current events are established and projected much more widely and much more often in this era, it follows that one should have more opinions, and participate more.  Of all the methods I’ve tried, the most effective and least artificial toner I’ve used is two tablespoons of rose water mixed with 1 cup of filtered water.  The rose water I use is a brand from Lebanon and you can probably find it in a local middle eastern grocery store.  Having a very public life no longer makes me uneasy!

I published the post and I was feeling satisfied, though very likely no other person would see it.  My only patron appeared to be a woman in her early 40s with hard bangs and a diamond choker smiling in her icon’s bubble, with arm around a presumed husband and the suggestive text “Be Kind” pegged in lower left corner in hot pink with white outline.  Miscellaneous background details in the icon, particularly a hanging silver streamer, communicated that at the time of the photo this woman had been at a New Years party.  Her silent interpretation of my persistently scarce content was eager musing territory for me when her icon focused my attention in the midst of a wild scroll, or when her face and militarized endorsement of kindness intruded with the elegance of a twirling maple samara upon my mind during a bout of fear-walking.  She made no effort to contact me, had no posts of her own or even personalized layout style, and yet she hypothetically watched me.  Of course it was pointless on her end — my posts were designed solely for the tactical misdirection of algorithmic spectres, conceived and published only in order to convince those supra-wiggly archivists of instinct that I was overwhelmingly a different person.  I did not want even the smallest gleak of truth to land online.  This “lost mind” plan even extended to my video watching and digital window shopping maneuvers, though in the case of the former it was impossible to totally restrain myself from a true curiosity and craving to pursue certain videos.  This lack of impulse control expanded even more robustly when porn entered an afternoon; it was insurmountable to search and watch against the specific desires and images I knew would satisfy me the most.  Yet I tried in rapid toe dips, once spending eleven minutes on a video of a nude bodybuilder shot-putting a collection of corns and lettuces into a wall, and with no o-face to conjure.  

“I walk in madness” was both my unorthodox phrase of meditation and most important sentence of self-parody.  When walking around at night in a certain state, I would now and then repeat to myself, “I walk in madness.”   After this I would laugh and say, “that’s dramatic.”  Self-parody swooped in to dehydrate the potential mirages, delusions.  But no other summary was as accurate — literally I walked in madness.  From the habits of my mind, a complex system had emerged and, quite simply, enveloped my unhinged ass.  I had strobe-nurtured my preferences for “the best way to think” over the last several years, so that now I was only sufficiently energized when mentally combining (1), an act of making fun of myself for feeling out of sorts, with (2), an earnest attempt at my own healing.  This perverse combo made me feel very aware but rarely good.  And when these thought commands then marinated in the head to a fully abusive gush, there was one more thing to consider.  What was the source of that powerful sensation that took me over when I went walking alone and without a plan at night?  What was it in the body that prodded me along that highly nummy snack trail of mini-catharses?  What was the source of those tiny pecks of transcendence that scattered down the back of the neck when nearing the production of an abyss?  That is, I did not only walk in madness because I had to, but also because it had become fun.  It raveled me on a line leading to some other connection, a connection which was not to The World.  It promised recognition of and commune with everything that did not matter or had not ever been confirmed to exist.

These areas were very important to pay attention to — I had ignored them for the majority of my, to be acutely real, goofiest years, it was important to know everything that was possible.  This was my routine.  I walked with glamour in circular patterns around less populated city neighborhoods at night, always listening to music that accentuated a spike in insane flavoring.  I only chose music that had the strength to combine halo and blurred hole, it was always music that floored my sensation to its final speed.  I knew I was so lucky to have built-in machinery that let me expand all of my reserves through music.  It was my only advantage.  It made me proud to turn inward.  If my skill was extreme sensitivity, it could only flourish in its most insular and native format.  

But I desperately needed new songs to fill me up, and over-listened as a resting state.  I over-listened, and a night out, i.e. the sustained advancement of nightlife over several hours, was an exhausting condition for me.  In a bar, I was penetrated by the old song I had heard over two thousand times before, but which now had been remixed in a contemporary style wherein synth stabs commanded by creatine hands had replaced what was once very clean, antiquated AOR guitar strumming.  The popular song I had highly ignored for the length of my life, and which hearing did not provoke outrage (or even flashback to wedding dance floor) but instead perpetual indifference in me, had been updated using the most cutting edge technology to produce aural depths not possible with the recording equipment available when the song was originally produced, and which now plunged the emotions much further down and much harder.  The original voice was now placed in a melancholy minefield of hysterically deep bass and plummeting, omnidirectional dynamics and, when the remix passed through the tequila that I was allowing to patrol my body, it replicated itself with viral menace to produce in me the extraterrestrial threat of a single tear.  

In this instance of a night out, Rob had invited me to this bar and party that I had never been to before.  Where I had expected to see more of his friends or even the endless hallway of acquaintances he seemed to be able to mobilize at random, instead I only saw Gail, revealing the conditions were such that Gail and I were the only people Rob had invited to the event.  There I stood under the song, almost leaking with melody-induced sentimentality or globular nostalgia mucus.  I looked across at Gail who was leaning on a wall, who did not seem to be able to observe me after our initial greeting when I arrived at the bar.  She appeared to not take in much information when moved from location to location, and when looking in her eyes I did not ever get the sensation that enormous perspectival changes were part of her social rhythm.  A common conclusion from a young person would be that she was fried, but whether as a condition of drugs/alcohol/trauma or some combo, there had not been any stories shared on which to focus a rock hard drama-horny eye.  Though I yearned to know what details flanked the long road leading to her hellscape, I realized it was unjust since I wasn’t prepared to present the full set of demonic coordinates that had led to mine.  How can one appeal with another story of lost sleep?  “Awake all night” is not the story anyway, yes we know, please make your complaining entertaining.  I was in the heart of the club, I understood it was not the moment to emerge brumal vapors in the form of uninteresting plot points excerpted from my very personal checklist of booboos.  “Oops,” the convicted serial killer said when the public did not like the realistic paintings he made of his victims while in jail.  Gurn: it was possible for the public to see horrifying paintings made by a serial killer.  

Several screens around the bar played the same music video, which the dance floor area magnified via projection on the wall, so that, in the most emotional part of the bar, emotion was keyed up considerably by the illusion of entering the world suggested by the song.  Rob and the bartender were near cheek-to-cheek, taking turns cocking their heads to the side so the voice of the other could enter the ear successfully over the newest Chicago house-derived, 80s-synthpop-infused rap song scorching the lair.  Gail stayed against the wall, looking around but appearing totally comfortable, a woman in her 60s drinking a High Life surrounded by a different generation, I was moved.  Being young is incredibly dangerous.  The bartender poured Rob and himself shots and they downed them together.  

Snippets of Gail’s circumstances had reached me, I knew she had been living with her son in Texas but now was essentially homeless, that Rob and Q.C. had met her at a goth club where she was hanging out with a much younger woman named Lillian.  Lillian would often be run into at the goth club or other clubs and bars, flirting with Rob and Q.C., and though she was definitely younger than Gail, she wore enough makeup to sufficiently alter minds and, with the support of moody bar lighting that left certain preferred corners in medium darkness, had an age that was unrecognizable.  “My instinct tells me she’s at least 35,” Rob had suggested after explaining to me the situation and after a long silence in which I didn’t respond or engage at all with what he had just said.  The pause had felt uncomfortable and also unnatural after such bulbous gossip so he apparently felt it important to break the silence with this one more detail of her estimated age.  I knew it would make both of us more comfortable if I said something in response to the story of Gail and Lillian but I didn’t, in the end, have anything to say, and so Rob told me he thought Lillian was at least 35, and I responded, “oh.”  Lillian and Gail were good friends and Lillian would often bring Gail along to the goth club; Gail did not dress on theme.  Eventually Rob learned she lived in her car and he invited her to stay with him for an unspecified amount of time.  Inevitably this increased my estimation of Rob’s worldview.  When he would decide once again it was time to throw trash from the neighborhood off the 2nd floor apartment balcony — for instance a decommissioned flatscreen or legless American Girl doll — Gail, watching through the open door from the beige velvet couch, would laugh once.  

Rob concluded his interaction with the bartender, turned to me and explained the bartender was hot and straight, and when the bartender worked the weekly gay night they held at the bar, he would appropriately enhance his image in honor of the conventional gay male eye — pouring himself into a tight black tank top that demonstrated his tactful chest hair and relevant bicep gains was the respectful thing to do.  “I’m going to dance now,” Rob said as a commanding female voice shook the establishment with its first notes.  

I wandered over with him but stuck to the doorway that connected the bar area to the dance floor, watching as he threw himself, alone, into the writhing environs, quite clogged with personal freedoms.  The mass of dancers sang the chorus of the song all together, the subject matter concerned a protagonist that felt jealous and sad to see their long pined after crush dancing with another girl.  In fact the protagonist likely never had a chance with the person who was their crush but had built up a dream narrative in which their idealistic love with this person was nearing possibility.  In the midst of such crushing circumstances, the protagonist, now left alone and heartbroken at some event they likely attended simply to engage further with their crush, has decided to dance through their loneliness despite it all, even if it will only enliven them for a moment, and for the length of the song.  Rob danced “with” almost anyone he turned his body towards.  Some people engaged, dancing back, and others stealthily maneuvered away.  At some point it was discernible that he no longer had on shoes or socks.  A girl very much liked that, drawing her friend’s attention to the fact, then touching Rob on the arm, saying something inaudible.  All three laughed.  I stood and watched, occasionally pinged by passing bodies gunning for the most emotional part of the bar.  I watched the video on the projection screen.  The female vocalist danced specifically, had short pink bowl cut hair, conveyed well-lit and accessible agony.  Several bar dancers unmistakably entered a sub-orgasmic flehmen response.  My left shoulder reflexively darted front and back — a significant space-grabber had brushed me by on their way to the dance floor.  It was eventually revealed to be Gail.  I watched her scream “YAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” as she launched herself into the crowd.