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Beyond the Veil of Terror(unfinished)
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Depression101 Offline
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Beyond the Veil of Terror(unfinished)

Author's note: a year ago I felt really depressed -- hopelessly depressed. I cried in my pillow, flailed around, cursed my life and my family and the day I was born. It was about midnight. I decided to pick up my tablet and open a word document and write down what I felt in story format. This has a lot to do with school and I hope someone can relate to it. It was written in a burst of madness so it might be a little disjointed. It's not yet finished, so... You know. It's more to show how my depression sounds on paper and in hope that someone could relate rather than entertainment. This wasn't written with readers in mind, so you have beem warned.


What lies beyond the uncharted territory of fear, terror, fright and horror is our greatest mystery. Perheps the best channel for horror is depression: there is no greater fear than that caused by monotony of existance, of extreme isolation; a terrible state in which the four familliar walls of your room are ghastly reminders of despair and hopelessness. In this state everything living or inanimate is your enemy, despair lurks beneath the surface of everything you hated, loved or didn't pay any attention to; depression makes every day an exercise of wit and will. When you awake with the haziness of being woken from a stupor a primodial fear sets in, a fear of what lies beyond the wall of sleep, a fear of what lurks behind the haziness. Once realization of reality kicks in, it knocks you back down to your bed.

That is how I felt for fifteen years. Now I wish I was depressed again for the terror that is beyond the emotion of fear is so cosmic and unbearable that I daren't shut my eyes for more than a mere blink after which I check every crack, crevice and shadow of my lonely mansion for signs of the Fear. That ghastly caricature that mocks our very psyche.

School was the start of it all. The prison in which the bloodhound guards encourage fights, and were you are forced to memorize books made for hourless torment rather than pleasure; textbooks: books written by imbeciles with a deficiency in the IQ department, not by true artists. It rendered my nights sleepless, filled with contemplation of suicide. I lived in the family manor with servents and family. Now, it stands empty save for me and the horror. In that manor when I begun to be trurly sad and desolate inside, I was plagued with fleeting shadows of indescribable shapes and proportions, haunted by shrill whisper from within the walls.

Later in life stress overwhelmed me into a disabling sickness. I spent most of my time in bed, barely able to withstand sunlight and besieged with complaints and scolds of my family whom merely pretended to love me. I was a failure to them; a man who rathered the life on fast lane, a man who opposed conventions and resented a higher power. I was like the ghoul in Lovecraft's tale -- The Outsider. Lovecraft and Poe provided me with the most comfort during those sickly years when everybody shunned me.

When I was well enough to wake up and make myself breakfast, my parents kicked me out and denied their relation to me. I was nothing to them, an un-educated, rebelious lonney. I didn't mind my lack of education, books and writing provided me with the only eduction I needed. I submitted all of my stories to horror magazines, but four of them saw print. After not being able to publish for a year I was discouraged. I was sure I'd write as well again, and I would have if not for my long nights of depressed thoughts while ill. During those dark hours I felt too tired to pursue my hobby. When I was disowned I made away with some of my books, childhood favorites, but I felt too terse to read them. I had nothing.

I was a vagabone, drifting through filthy streets and solitary country roads. The aforementiomed whispers persisted, and slowly morphed into a shrill, heavy and desperate caciphony, the sound came from everywhere: people's houses and from gnarled elm trees -- depending on my locations; shadows also followed me, jumping through the rooftops or dashing through the treetops. I doubted my sanity beforehand, but now, I couldn't find any sane thoughts in my head. My haggard, scared look inclined people to turn me down from their doorstep. I was lost, cold, unwanted and I had nothing. Nothing at all. Just irrational fear and schizophrenia

"Then it was straight to the 40 ouncers/ slapping teachers and jacking off in front of my counselors." As the World Turns - Eminem.

"A man is a success if gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does whatever he does what he wants to do." - Bob Dylan.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die." - H.P. Lovecraft.

"I became insane, with long intervals of painful sanity." Edgar Allan Poe.
05-14-2017 09:30 AM
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Beyond the Veil of Terror(unfinished) - Depression101 - 05-14-2017 09:30 AM

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