u/Minimum_Ad4771

https://soundation.com/projects/f2af3803-cc56-4c28-b742-144c5426bc06

Siedze i pije by zapomnieć. Nigdy nie doświadczyłem takiej porażki. Jest to upokarzające. Nwm co zrobić. Poradźcie.

I've just survived this shit. I regret it deeply. I had a very bad time last night and took too many sleeping pills. Took 4 quetiapine pills to hope I was asleep forever. It turned out to be far from the OD dose.

I'm deeply disturbed by what I did. I can't believe I could do that to my family. Can anyone relate? Please help.

I had s*x with somebody who was HIV positive... Regret it to this day. Hbu?

I (21M) have an older brother (24M) who is an oddball, to say the least. He spends most of his time inside his room. He plays video games and watches YouTubers I don’t even know. He’s attending college classes, but it seems like he doesn’t care too much. It just seems like he’s living a very unimpressive existence.

Recently, he had a streak of dating, which seemed pretty unusual for him, dare I say. He’s been active on Tinder, and none of his dates, except for one, led to a second date. All I know is that the only second date he got was with a woman who is a little too into substances. That’s what I heard from him! I’m not really into the idea of having such a sister-in-law.

Today, I got frustrated because he was talking about being alone and sad at family dinner. He claimed he is an “incel loser” — his exact words — and admitted that he feels like a “forever alone” type. I was frustrated with his claims because I’ve had a few more relationships than he has, and I’m younger than him. I’m sorry, but I just cannot understand how much he talks compared to how little he acts. All he does is sit in front of the computer, and whenever he goes out on dates, he smells bad and wears clothes that look like they haven’t been ironed in a long time.

So I said he’s a loser with that type of mindset, which seemed pretty clear to me. But he stood up and left the room. I know it wasn’t the nicest thing to say to somebody, but it’s true. He barely cares about himself, and he thinks everything will fall from the sky for him. He sits in his room and barely goes out now. I think he’s waiting for me to apologize, but I won’t.

AITA? I think he’s a bit too “woe is me.” I’m not the macho type, but I’ve had a few girlfriends already, and he seems like he only wants to talk badly about himself instead of becoming better.

https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1uib09u/i_repeated_the_same_meaningless_action_thousands/

I would like to thank everyone who replied under my last post. All of your replies brought some courage back into my heart, and I am grateful for that. I am still a bit troubled by the general situation, though. I would like to quickly explain why.

I promised to record my situation with technology, yet certain events have happened, and I can no longer believe I will be able to do this.

I have stopped trying to perform an Entry. Why, you may ask? Well, I believe I have been, for lack of a better word, branded. The last experience I had in the hotel room changed something in my perception of the astral world. It became terribly easy to access the world I feared, and that troubles me deeply. In my last post, I claimed the probability of an Entry might have been less than one in a trillion. Now, it might be more than one percent. To be clear, I might be able to have an Entry every day.

One situation frightened me terribly, to the point where I considered seeking mental health treatment. I was still in my hotel room, drinking a vodka cocktail. Yes, I began drinking again. I have been feeling incredibly anxious since my last post, and it became terribly difficult for me to fall asleep sober. Don’t judge me.

I was mindlessly scrolling through the available channels. I did not care what I was watching. All I cared about was stopping this overwhelming feeling of solitude, even if it meant observing a couple of strangers on an old TV.

I stumbled upon a random game show. It was based on Wheel of Fortune and included random contestants, with the host throwing out dumb dad jokes between rounds. The perfect Sunday treat for a lazy mind. I had been watching the show for about ten minutes when something disturbing happened.

It lasted maybe five seconds at most. One of the contestants won a prize for the right answer, and the host exclaimed, “Let’s move on to the next question!” The crowd cheered and clapped in excitement—until suddenly, it stopped.

I mean complete silence.

Everyone in the audience stopped clapping. No one coughed or sneezed. No one breathed. The camera zoomed in on the host and one of the contestants. They looked at each other and shared an odd, cruel smile. It was as if they were in on a joke I could not understand.

Suddenly, their eyes moved.

They looked right at me.

I know there is a camera they are instructed to look at. But I swear, I cannot explain it logically, yet I deeply felt it. They stared at me in that very moment. They both shared the same smile of cruelty, the same knowledge of something sinister. No one in their right mind would believe it, but in that moment of blankness, as if the world had stopped turning, they seemed about to laugh at me. It was clear as day in that drunken haze on a hotel sofa.

Then they looked at each other again and resumed the game as if nothing had happened.

I swear, I might be overreacting, but there were surely a few seconds of pure, utter disgust between us. It could even have been funny, an awkward moment in the studio—if they had not been looking straight at me.

I moved out of the hotel. After that last situation, I could not stay there any longer. I had no other place to stay but my home. My family had not seen me in weeks, so I hoped they would at least greet me. I believed I mattered.

What I stumbled into was quite distressing, to say the least. As I moved toward the entrance, I noticed the front door was open. That left quite a bit of tension inside me. I should have turned back, yet I was curious about what was going on inside with my loved ones.

The kids were not there. Their rooms were messy, as if somebody had crawled through their shelves, searching for something hidden deep beneath them. I screamed their names, but nobody answered. Only dead silence hung in the air, the last brave soldier making its stand. I hoped for a hint: a shed of blood in the corner, a hole in the wall, anything suggesting what might have happened to them, however depraved it may have been. But there was nothing except for the overwhelming sense of nothingness.

Yet the worst was still to come.

My wife had locked herself in our bedroom. The door has a glass panel through which you can see into the room. I could see her sitting on the edge of our bed. Her head had fallen between her shoulders, and I could not see her face. She did not respond to my questions. She just sat there, still as a brick.

The door would not move. I believe she might have barricaded herself in. I tried to break the windows, walking around the outer walls, but I could not find the strength. I felt incredibly weak. Whenever I walked to any of the windows, she hid her face between her shoulders, between her hair. I could not see her eyes or mouth. It was as if she was afraid of me.

I do not know what happened to my family while I was away. I only hope it was not connected to the Entry.

Here, the story becomes quite shocking. I acknowledge that my decision was abnormal and did not reflect the seriousness of the situation. But trust me: at that point, I felt such immense shock, such glorious pain, that I could not react accordingly.

I was afraid of my wife.

I was afraid of my home.

I walked up to my son’s bedroom. His wheelchair stood in the corner. His science diplomas were on the walls, and his favourite teddy bear was still sitting on the upper shelf, looking for the big boy who had left him alone. I touched his bed, cold as if no soul had rested inside it for ages. I lay down in his bed, arms and legs stretching as far as they could, eyes contorting, seeing little shapes in the corners of my vision as I drowned into oblivion.

Now I need to dump some information.

Have you ever heard of astral projection? It was one of the things I learned while trying to find my way into the Entry. I am still an amateur, but I will try my best to explain. Astral projection means your body sleeps while your mind stays awake. You practise deep rest, and when you achieve a perfect sense of experiencing while dreaming, you reach worlds you have not even thought of. Something more than you have ever been. A prospect somewhat terrifying, yet beautiful at the same time.

How is it connected to the Entry? Well, while you are beginning to sleep, you enter a state known as REM, which stands for Rapid Eye Movement. Translating that into English: you blink really fucking fast. Do you get it now? You repeat a certain action for quite a long time. I tried achieving this state many times during my training sessions in the hotel room. I never got it quite right. Yet I somehow felt that each time, I was closer to the experience I had dreamed of: seeing something between one blink and another, a figure standing above me, a face—or the lack of one—showing me sights unimaginable before.

I did it that day, in my son’s bedroom, trying to calm myself. You may be laughing right now at how absurd the situation was, but I needed it. At the moment of returning home, I was high as a kite and panicking over what the world around me had turned into. The absence of my loved ones disturbed me to my core, and I actually felt like I was dying. Any form of rest was something I immediately had to take, or I would have slit my own throat.

While resting, several thoughts appeared inside my head. Your brain wanders while you are trying to reach astral projection, and some sights seem quite random. Yet some of them contributed to what I felt then.

I remembered an incident that had happened in the last few weeks. I need to remind you of it now, as it might be another example of an Entry I recently stumbled upon. The event has been discussed on a few news sites, including some paranormal ones, so take it with a grain of salt.

It happened just thirty miles from my hometown, in a house by the meadows. A family saw a moose walking through the trees. It was quite an unusual sight, as they had mostly observed deer and boars. A wild moose was a wonderful sight of nature, one they could not believe was right in front of their eyes.

There was quite a distance between the house where the family was staying and the meadow where the moose stood. So they used binoculars to look at the animal in detail. Awe and excitement swept through them until the moment the youngest daughter gazed through the binoculars.

The mother was later interviewed about the event. She said that when her daughter looked through the binoculars, her face showed a look of disgust. It seemed as if she was about to cry, but all she did was put down the equipment and slowly walk away from the room the family was in. The mother claimed the situation was quite unusual and followed her child to determine what had disturbed her. What is distressing about this case is that the outspoken, confident child turned silent and frustrated, lying on top of her bed and looking at the wall while her mother tried to get an answer out of her.

It was only after the mother had given up and the night had invited itself in that something else happened. The mother was woken by footsteps. Right after she woke up, as she claimed in the interview, she saw the shadow of her daughter standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Her face was completely covered by darkness, and she could not glimpse even a trace of emotion. All she heard was:

“Mom, I’ve got a drawing for you…”

Then her daughter ran away. The mother used the word “sprinted.”

Right after she stood up, she felt a soft sensation under her feet. There was a single piece of paper left by the parents’ bed. The woman picked it up and stared at it. It was terribly dark, so she turned on the lamp, quite shocked to see such an event happening so late at night.

After getting a look at the picture, the woman claimed she felt shock to her deepest core. Yes, children possess quite an imagination. They might watch cartoons and movies, play video games while their guardians are not watching, and savour disgusting sights inside them. Their friends may corrupt them and talk of vile things, show them videos, disturb them. Kids may see a lot these days. Regardless, there was no way that drawing had been done by a child.

The last portion of the interview discusses the final meeting between the mother and her daughter before the girl went missing. One day, her bed was simply empty, and no sign of her has ever been recorded.

The mother tried to force her daughter to explain what the picture was meant to be. In the interview, the woman claims that at that point, she was filled with adrenaline, as if something primal had awakened inside her. Nevertheless, nothing prepared her for the answer her daughter gave her.

“I’ve just seen them through the binoculars. Didn’t you, Mom?”

The little girl, aged nine, is still being looked for by the local police. No trace of her has been found, so the situation went viral.

As I was dozing off, I was reminded of the pictures she had drawn. They were available on one of those cheesy paranormal sites. I realized why they disturbed me so much. First of all, everything was chaotic. It looked as if the lines had been drawn at random. But once you searched for the details, you began observing things: hands in places they should not be, shapes that looked like bodies yet were deeply contorted, teeth and eyes, sometimes so surreal that they looked as if another world had birthed them. And an overwhelming sense of suffering, as if the pencil had spat pure cruelty straight onto the piece of paper.

To me, her drawing looked like Hell.

Back to my experience. Once again, I felt like something was happening. I began drifting, and surreal thoughts appeared in my mind: somebody screaming to me, somebody whose voice I recognized; the hotel room I had stayed in; the TV host’s face. It all appeared quickly and viciously, as if I had been devoured by psychedelics.

And then again, just like last time.

I heard knocking at the door.

But this time, it was my son’s bedroom, where I lay as stiff as a corpse.

I tried to move and open the door, yet I could not. I was lost inside my thoughts, and no energy flowed through my muscles. All I could do was quickly repeat in my mind that everything was okay, that they were just hallucinations, that they could not hurt me.

But the knocking began again. Now viciously. Pounding at the door, as the whole room trembled.

Suddenly, I felt myself rising. It was at this moment that I astral-projected. But right then, it felt like standing up. It was so natural that I forgot I was dreaming. Yet with all those “natural” sensations, I floated to the ceiling. I plastered myself against the top of the room and observed my body trembling, as if death were touching me with its little finger.

Then the door opened. It was my wife.

Her face was pale as ghost skin. Her eyes were hidden behind a tornado of hair, and her arms hung by her torso smoothly, as if they were unnecessary utensils stitched together at random. She breathed heavily, growling as she exhaled.

I observed her walking toward my body. I began hyperventilating. Something deep inside me informed me that I was about to die. That her shape, consumed by something more sinister than I could ever imagine, was about to consume me whole. That she would bite into my chest and neck, and my ethereal body would tear itself apart rather than be left alone.

But then she stared at me. Deep into my eyes, deep into myself.

And so did I.

My body opened its eyes and began staring.

And they both said quietly, though the words rang inside my brain:

“Walk down. Quickly!”

Then I woke up.

I was back inside the body that had spoken to me while I was lost on the ceiling.

Panic was still deep inside my heart, searching throughout the room for another version of me, one far more depraved than I could imagine. I knew that an existence had floated inside my room. I knew it had been staring at me. The moment I found its eyes, I would lose all my senses and go insane, as the utter pit of evil would consume every single one of my cells.

But I needed to walk down, quickly.

I ignored the repetition of myself staring with murderous intent right between my sockets. I walked down the stairs to our bedroom.

The sight that greeted me seemed comedic at first. But the next moment, I somehow believed an unimaginable evil had taken place.

Through the glass panel of the door, I saw my wife’s figure. She was standing right behind the door, face-first, glaring at me. Once again, at me. With her eyes and mouth obscured by the glass, she was staring at me.

Something deeper than panic struck me. An illogical fear, searching for darkness in the corners of my eyes. I imagined a predator looking for prey, and that prey was me, easy to hunt. I felt myself in the eyes of the creature in the corner of the room, preparing its fangs to bite into the side of my neck.

Then I walked toward our bedroom.

“Honey, please answer me. You have been in there for hours now. What is going on? Where are the kids?”

With each step, I imagined my wife breaking through the glass door and gouging out my eyes. But I walked, and I blinked, and I breathed, and I was still alive. Nothing happened except me moving. It was terrifying, as if I were the master of this cruel, petrified world that I did not understand.

I touched the door and slowly pushed it.

“Honey, I’m coming inside. Don’t try anything odd. I want to help you. I need to know where the kids are. Did you do anything to them? Honey, what is happe—”

When you pray, you search for salvation. You believe in a creature that may invite you into its world and greet you with the greatest wonders of existence. Yet sometimes, just sometimes, you do not get salvation. Sometimes it laughs in your grieving face while you pick up the pieces of what you once knew and try to reassemble them, while everything burns and crumbles around you.

Now I know why my wife had seemed slightly taller as she stood face-first against the door.

I had never seen her purple before. She was red when I invited her on our first date. She was white when we hugged each other in a freezing cabin in the Alps. She was brown after we returned from our honeymoon, a beautiful body carved by angels.

Now her purple face and vomit-stained shirt moved left to right, left to right, as she swung from the noose. Left and right, left and right.

My beautiful wife, the light of my life, had become pesticide for dreams.

A certain action, repeated a number of times, may induce an Entry. You need to constantly repeat that action and stare at it, so that one time, another sight may steal your attention. The basis of the Theory.

It was when my wife swung to the left that I saw my bloodstained son right behind her. His head had a huge hole through which I could see the beige wall behind him. His eye had been plucked out, and there were bite marks near his neck. He was sitting in his wheelchair, which was rusty and crimson all over.

Tough guy. He never wanted anybody’s help. Even when his darkest days struck him, he moved on as somebody practical, somebody brave. His accident did not stop him from being successful, competing in sports, or being popular with girls. So fucking beautiful. I was always proud of him. He never disappointed me.

Then, with his urine-stained pants and a fear only pigs in slaughterhouses have, he whispered:

“Save me, Daddy!”

My wife swung to the right. My son disappeared. Something else appeared.

It seemed like a cruel joke, one I did not yet understand. But right as something struck my mind and invited the thoughts in, I let out a good, loud laugh. I do not know what was hunting me, but it did a damn good job. And it was surely breaking me.

On the wall, in crimson, right as my wife resembled a pendulum, there was a message:

1/4

---

I need to recollect my thoughts. This experience has stopped being fun, and I cannot trust my senses anymore. Something bad is happening. I do not know if it is even real, but I surely hope not. Yet somehow, I know that the sights in my home were not fake. And the worst part is that I do not know how to move on.

Anybody, please help.

What should I do?

I'm sure you've had moments like this yourself.

Something so common, an act done simply by muscle memory, with no thought. It may be taking off your shirt, it may be a quick glance in a mirror, turning off the lights once you leave the basement, or suddenly being alone in an aisle at the supermarket. A filler moment you forget ten seconds later.

What if I told you that moment could have been crucial? That you could have, for lack of a better word, traveled somewhere? Met somebody... or something?

Recently, I've been reading a lot. Knowledge became the most important thing to me, and I did not have enough time to inform myself. Therefore, I quit my damn job and have been living in a hotel room for two weeks now. I eat ramen noodles and drink water, no alcohol, to keep my mind clear. Judge me all you want. All I care about is information.

What I study is probability. Of what, you may ask? To be honest, I'm not quite sure. What I know is that there is something very hostile with a minimal, almost nonexistent chance of appearing, of being sensed by our eyes. And I need to know how to get to it.

You may ask: how did I get interested in such a niche subject? Well, my path to understanding was quite long and mostly dictated by boredom and frustration. I've been frustrated with my life. I've always been a well-behaved individual. I finished school with decent grades, as I had been told to. I searched for jobs and licked my bosses' asses, as I had been told to. I married, divorced, became bankrupt, and got my car tires stolen like any other boring fella. I remarried, this time to a woman ten years younger, and made myself two beautiful kids, one of whom became a ballet dancer, while the other loved drifting too much and broke his spine, which paved his way into a wheelchair. I've loved, hated, felt immersed, and felt let down. And guess what? All that fucking time, I've been frustrated. And fucking unhappy.

Then, one day, I went to a lecture. It was exactly the fourth time I had attended one of those college lectures open to the public since I got my diplomas. I did not care about gaining additional knowledge; I just enjoyed spending time with somebody intelligent. It made me stop thinking about how miserable I was. The professor was thin, short, and looked as if he would melt from the summer heat. He did not look like the man who would change my life.

The theme was The Theory of Common Entries. If you've never heard about it, don't worry; neither had I. The basic claim of the theory was that the afterlife was 100% real. At least something resembling existence beyond the usual functions of the body. While death was the most definite entry into this state, society could not analyze death thoroughly. We lacked the technology that could reach the astral part of our dimension. Yet there was another way to reach a portion of that world.

The theory suggested that seemingly insignificant acts could lead you into an element of the "afterlife." There were some conditions, though. Firstly, the act had to be small, like if it didn't matter. Something you'd forget about in a moment. Secondly, somewhat contrary to the first condition, the act needed to induce slight anxiety. A mystique, a suspense that makes you think. Not outright fear, like a horror movie jump scare. Just enough creepiness to make your skin crawl a little.

What does it mean, then? Countless different examples. Turning off your Bluetooth earphones and thinking that some other sound may play. Taking off your shirt and, while the fabric is all over your face, being afraid that the world might have changed while your eyes were hidden. Seeing a window leading to a dark room while you quickly dart your eyes across the street. Have you seen that figure standing there?

There is a catch, however. Several catches, even. First of all, you've most likely done these little acts thousands of times and experienced nothing paranormal. That's where probability comes in. It is not clear exactly how uncommon "the Entry" is, but I can definitely say the chance is lower than one in a trillion. Maybe much lower. Also, even when you transport yourself to the other world, you may not see it whole. There are documented cases, which I'm confident are connected to the Theory, where individuals describe experiencing something... minimal. A figure, a face, a sound. However, the experience can also be the other side of the coin. And I don't even want to think about what one's eyes may see then.

You may also think: if these events are so horrible, then why does this man want to reach them? Truth be told, I don't have a rational answer. I've been deeply troubled by the lack of logic in my actions for months now. Yet I somehow trained myself not to care. All I can mutter is that I want a break from this endless cycle of blandness and longing for a solution. I needed a how-to for all of my grayish existence, and this is the most correct how-to I've stumbled upon. If I can grasp something feared by billions and document it as realistically as possible, maybe I'll finally get to feel something.

I've gone through several cases of anomalies closely related to the Theory. One of them concerned a woman in Germany. A relatively unknown missing-person case turned not-so-happy when she landed in a mental health facility shortly after being found. From a bunch of recorded interviews, the listener can determine that her incoherent rambling actually suggests an Entry happening. She had supposedly been washing the window of her house in a way that caused the rag to obstruct her view through the glass with every sweep. For most of the sweeps, she could only see the dark bedroom she shared with her husband. But suddenly, as she claims between screaming and sobbing, her hand felt a soft sensation, as if the glass had turned into a skin-like texture. Before she throws a tantrum, a few words are heard, such as "eye," "tooth," and "blood." The woman has been in the facility for years, and the psychologists suggested that childhood trauma, opened up by years of alcoholism, led her there. This is their explanation. But I have mine.

Another case took place in Australia. This case had a fair share of witnesses, and it's been documented quite well. So well, in fact, that fake information has been attached to the story for dramatic effect. What we know for sure is that a group of teens had a campfire party in a secluded area. In an alcoholic haze, one of the boys suggested wrestling with their shirts off. A dumb stunt to impress the girls. The idea was quickly approved by the group, and a few of the guys began taking their shirts off amidst laughter and playful insults. Then the screaming began. One of the witnesses claimed it sounded animalistic, like a rabbit being torn apart by foxes. A boy, just fourteen at the time, began pointing at the nearby trees, dimly lit by the campfire. What pushes that incident into Entry territory is that nobody observed anything in the direction the boy was pointing, as the testimonies suggest. Nevertheless, panic spread through the group. Some tried to calm the screaming boy down; some left the area. Here, the facts collide with bullshit information, but the conclusion remains the same. The boy began violently hitting his head against the stones lying on the dirt. While the other party members tried to stop him, the harm to his body was too severe. He died in the hospital. Treat it as an urban legend, but it is claimed that the nurses heard him whisper "leave" and "begging" before he became a shell of his former self.

These are definite examples of the Entry. Nobody has claimed it yet except for me, and it was slightly hinted at by my previously mentioned professor. Yet there are a few cases that could qualify as an Entry. A Japanese man seeing his dead grandmother in the cellar window. A girl from California hearing what she claimed to be "her mother burning in hell" as she unplugged her headphones from her laptop. Even an explorer from the seventeenth century writing about an incident where he observed an infant with an umbilical cord swimming through the Pacific Ocean.

Now I need to inform you that there is a way to increase the probability of the Entry happening. It may sound idiotic at first, but bear with me. Repeat a certain action a huge number of times. Look at the basement corridor, turn your head to the right to stare at the wall, then look at the corridor again. Repeat hundreds of times. This is a madman's talk, isn't it? Well, I've been taking off my T-shirt and putting it back on thousands of times already. I've been glancing at windows thousands of times. I've even trained myself to keep my eyes closed for longer periods of time while blinking. And finally, I might have had a glimpse.

The time it happened, I was staring at the bathroom mirror in my hotel room. I had locked the door and pulled down the curtains. It was semi-dark in the room, and I could not hear my neighbors. I felt deeply alone. Not lonely, just alone, forgotten, lost. A singular piece. Damn, I had even watched a bunch of creepy YouTube videos to increase my anxiety a bit.

Stare at the mirror, observe any changes appearing. Look down at the sink. Pull my head up. Repeat. I had already lost count. Definitely more than three hundred and less than five hundred. My neck began to hurt.

With each look at the mirror, I imagined a figure appearing behind me. It could be a demon that would immediately attack me and cut my flesh with burning claws. I also imagined my face contorting into a psychotic grin against my will, and my fingers ripping apart my flesh, spilling guts on the floor in a raw, primal fashion. But nothing happened, again and again.

Suddenly, I observed a slight change. Or did I? It was like a shadow quickly ran away from my vision as my face searched for the mirror. A dark, thin line escaped the bathroom floor and reached for the space the glass did not reflect. I froze, and a wave of disgusting excitement swept through me. It couldn't be an illusion; I had gone through them already. My brain had already determined what was a placebo effect for my gray matter. What I experienced was either a very competent illusion or a hint of something sinister.

Suddenly, a wave of fear struck me. I did not hear a sound, yet something could have been standing in the corner with the most terrifying expression one could see. I did not even fear what the entity could do to me physically. The pain became something out of the world I had stumbled into, something so abstract in the face of experiencing the most gut-wrenching depravity. I imagined it flowing through me and feeding on every thought I had until I blew my brains out. I was afraid of the unimaginable suffering the entity could lay upon me.

But I could not give up now. Everything I had gone through had led me to this moment. I had been running away from my mediocre existence, and this was the sight that could change it all. I had to turn my head now. Do it, coward. Find your fucking meaning.

Head right.

No odd sights.

A wave of shame went through me. I felt disgusted with myself. No odd sights. I had been so close to the Entry, and I somehow lost it all. In fact, I was close to believing there was no Entry at all. Fuck that crazy professor. Fuck those internet stories. All of this made me so angry at myself. I might have worsened my pathetic life even more than necessary with this stupid room and this stupid theory. In fact, I became so angry that I wanted to punch the mirror. Break the glass, destroy the room. Kill yourself after.

Preparing a punch, I turned my face to the mirror.

I saw...

Doorbell.

I froze. Nobody had bothered me all this time. I had been alone for the whole two weeks. The hotel staff hadn't bothered me at all. Yet somebody was trying to get in. The doorbell rang a second time. I realized I was standing around doing nothing while somebody waited. I ran out of the bathroom. The living room was the same as before. I realized I was shirtless, so I took the T-shirt from the chair and began putting it on. Halfway through putting the shirt on, I had a thought. What if whatever was ringing the doorbell was the anomaly? What if I was experiencing the Entry? The thing might harm me, and I didn't know how to defend myself. If I even could defend myself.

Thank God I froze there, because as a wave of panic hit me, I suddenly realized what I was doing.

I was putting a shirt on during the Entry.

I immediately squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath for good measure. My heart was beating so fast I thought I'd get a damn heart attack. The shirt flung from my arms and landed somewhere on the floor. I didn't know where, but at least it wasn't on me. I did not finish the process. While on the verge of panic, not knowing what to do now that I had reached this point, my natural instinct was to freeze. And wait. So I waited.

The door handle moved, and the footsteps began.

First they were loud, then very loud. I turned into an immobile statue that did not breathe and did not see. I only heard the footsteps as they moved closer to my ears. Suddenly, it felt like they were inches away from my face. I was about to open my eyes when they stopped.

A moment of silence turned into infinity.

As I'm writing this, I still feel the tension in my muscles that began right then. Nothing could have prepared me for the physical pain that primal fear delivered to me. I even felt sick to the deepest corners of my stomach, as if I had murdered a helpless child. As if that was my fault. I still feel a hint of presence begging me to sense it mere atoms away from my face.

Yet the footsteps began again. Extremely loud, very loud, loud. Then bearable, happening somewhere near the doorframe. Then echoing in the corridor. And slowly but surely, the most excruciating sensation I had ever had the displeasure to semi-witness faded into oblivion as the silence began again. The safe silence.

Moments of hesitation and a very stupid decision. Opening my eyes. My heart tore at my muscles and almost punctured a hole through my body with how fast it was beating. But the room was just as I remembered it, except for one major difference.

The door, previously locked by me, was now wide open.

. . .

While extremely terrifying, I want to repeat my session. It gave me a taste of a rush I've never felt in my boring life. Call me a fool or a madman, I don't care. This time, I want to bring in some recording equipment to check whether I can connect technology with proving the Theory. I know it's 100% real now, but the world needs to know. It will be my duty, and I will be remembered for it.

Wish me luck.

Different strokes for different folks, obviously. But I simply... hate dating. Hear me out.

I'm a young guy, therefore not financially stable and emotionally immature. I've had 1 relationship in my life and it started because of the girl. I've had a few other dates and not much else.

First of all, it's stressful. I don't enjoy myself there - it's like a job interview. I overthink most of my actions and usually do something awkward. I also tend to attach myself really quickly and when I get rejected it hurts too much.

Besides, the process of getting there is bad enough! I loathe dating apps while also being too reserved and shy to do remotely anything irl. That leaves a very small window of meeting new people online through social media (which I barely use) and chatrooms. Even then, it rarely ends with a meeting and is just chatting with new people at an extremely rapid pace. It's exhausting.

At the end of the day relationships are exhausting too. They demand so much time and energy. We argue about the most insignificant of stuff. I have to engage in compromises which disturb my comfort. And I just lack time for myself.

I've had a loong break from dating (a year). It's not better OVERALL, but it's much more peaceful. I actually don't miss it that much. I don't even know if I want a relationship, I don't crave it. Is it wrong?

Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈 What are the gayest metalcore bands you know?

Wasted a year of my life for nothing. My friends already got their first promtions and I only chased subjects I was semi-interested in. Got drunk and high and it's all that matters to me now. Tomorrow I will wake up with this pathetic existence again. Fuck it.

Live your life, kiddos! Enjoy it, cause you never know when it will bite you in the ass. Wish you all well.

Rays of sunshine woke me up. I moved gently, letting the purity of the sun grasp my skin. A sweet, mellow aura flowed through me as I regained my senses. A thought appeared at the back of my mind. It was another day of harvesting crops, a necessary yet harsh task. It was still better to exhaust myself for a few months than to starve to death in winter.

Mother wasn’t present in our hut. Neither were my sisters nor my brother. I felt a great disturbance, as the silence overwhelmed me. It was never that quiet in our home. Never.

I stood up to gaze through the window. I loved the view that was promised to me every day: a path of grass and red dirt, with houses on both sides of it. Cows and goats walked freely alongside calm shepherds, children played in the mud, and housewives prepared meals with whatever they could find. A picture of people exhausted, yet feeling the need to carry on. One that motivated me to walk every day.

Instead, I saw a grotesque sight.

Most of our village — dozens, if not a hundred people — stood far away, staring at the forest. Men and women, children and the elderly. All the faces of our pretty village had stopped, anxious, looking for something between the trees.

Such a sight could not escape me.

I quickly stood up and picked up a few clothes. Running down the chamber, I imagined what the sight might be. Was it death that had visited our village that day? Or had some other unimaginable evil taken place?

I joined the group, pushing through people to get a glimpse of what was happening. I only glimpsed my little sister out of the corner of my eye. What I could sense from her face was dread, similar to when our father was forced into the army. At that point, I was prepared for the worst. Pushing myself to the front row of the crowd, standing between the milkman’s son and the carpenter’s wife, I finally got the view I wanted. Nothing could have prepared my eyes for the impurity I was about to witness.

The first one I saw was the dark man. He wore a costume, all black like the loneliest, saddest night sky. He wore a hood like a monk, which hid most of his face behind a shadow. His hand grasped a staff, something straight from the tales about magicians riding dragons as they touched the clouds above. The staff had a red stone, pulsating like a heart, shining terribly bright. Even in the middle of the day, you were blinded by its light. The man spoke no words and plainly stared at the ground, as if reciting a prayer.

Then I looked down.

It was our blacksmith. A muscular man, with a long beard and a head with no hair left. The warrior who had fought in several wars, slaughtered dozens of enemies, and brought their weapons to our little village so children could gaze at them with awe. This man was weeping like a baby, crawling in the dirt like a worm. Yet, even though this symbol of masculinity, brought down to his most pathetic form, was lying before my feet, he was not the most surprising element of that day.

It was his dead child who lay limp in his arms.

Eyes like a fish, mouth dry as desert sand. Skin white as the Holy Virgin painted on the walls of the chapel. Even paler. Limbs hanging in the air, as though they had given up and no longer had the passion to move.

And not a single sign of blood.

My eyes darted from the blacksmith to the stranger. It was a sight I could only have read about in the Holy Scriptures, as the Lord stared into the abyss. Devils mocking Him, ugly, twisted forms taking part in such acts, pointing their rotten fingers, taking great enjoyment in suffering. But this time, it was not the suffering of somebody unknown to me, nor a symbol of suffering made only for monks to interpret during sermons. It was the purest suffering, laid on dirt and mud, and there were no devils to laugh at it. Only bloodshot eyes.

The old shopkeeper fell to her knees first.

“Save me, Lord, oh, save me!”

The moment she screamed those words, I felt an irrational sense of superiority. A child was decaying, while the possible murderer might have been standing right before our eyes, and this woman had the audacity to pray? Act, people, act! Take this stranger, grab his limbs, ask him where he has come from! Then burn him at the stake! Crucify him, the filthy sinner. Make him feel the pain our village is feeling after losing the innocent!

But nobody moved forward. Instead, they all fell down.

“Save me, Lord, oh, save me! Save us from the wrath of the wandering stranger!”

There were no sights, no sounds to believe in then. The village had gone mad. I was the only one standing, a pathetic youngling, disobeying what the village had decided to do. The wails of my people greatly disturbed me. They clawed at their faces, they screamed into the sky, they fell into the pose of the cross behind the faceless stranger. The blacksmith dropped his child’s body and began crawling on his back, his eyes white. His hands desperately moved forward, as if he was trying to grab our Lord from heaven.

Then his empty eyes moved toward my face. Everybody’s eyes moved toward my face. Yet nobody spoke a word, except for the grieving blacksmith. With his deep voice, he announced:

“I’m begging you, save me from the stranger!”

Then the red light stole everything.

Rays of sunshine woke me up.

I moved gently, letting the purity of the sun grasp my skin. A sweet, mellow aura flowed through me as I regained my senses. A thought appeared at the back of my mind. It was another day of harvesting crops, a necessary yet harsh task. It was still better to exhaust myself for a few months than to starve to death in winter.

My sisters were already up, and they had probably run outside to play with the other children. My brother was still sleeping — Mother was easy on him, as he had been sick this past year. While times were tough and the young ones still had to work, a good heart needed to have some sympathy for the weak.

I met Mother in the main chamber. She had not prepared any meal that morning and told me to grab the tools and immediately run toward the fields. The day promised to be a harsh one, even though some villagers had volunteered to help us with the crops instead of following their usual routine. I was thankful for that. Since our father had gone to war, the work had overwhelmed our hands to the point of asking the Lord for some inner strength.

The nightmare I had experienced troubled me terribly. The sights my mind had made up were truly disturbing ones. But they were still something I had imagined. I had had terrible visions before, even worse than the one I had that night. I had seen murder, rape, depravity, and all the Sacraments smashed into little pieces. Yet I strongly believed it was evil testing me. The Lord was on my side, and that was all that mattered. I would never sacrifice myself to the weakness of sinners.

The son of the blacksmith passed by me as I walked toward the fields. His face was paler than usual.

The Lord should have blessed me with at least eight arms to finish this job quickly. Instead, I took part in the harvest without any breaks until evening visited our village. A beautiful orange sun was all I could believe in as my limbs felt immense pain and my body trembled, getting closer to falling apart with every step.

Suddenly, an unusual event happened. I barely remember what transpired, because my fatigue took over my thoughts. A man walked up to me. I barely grasped his face, but his voice sounded familiar and his body looked familiar. I assumed it was somebody from the village. The words he muttered were the most astounding then:

“Have you checked the river yet?”

Something unpleasant began to grow inside me. I recalled the visions I had experienced that night and felt a cold sensation from the top of my head to my little toes. There was a river flowing around our village, and it was deep enough for somebody to fall into and disappear beneath its surface. Mothers begged their children not to play by the river and told them a fable of forest people taking rude children away with the waves.

It could not be. I must have been going insane. The Lord must have been testing me.

I tried to look into the man’s eyes, but there was nobody in the place where he had once stood. For the love of God, there was not even a trail in the grass suggesting somebody had walked by.

If it had to be a test, then let it be. If I could save a pure soul, I would do it that day. Do not convince me anymore, Lord. I will follow Your signs.

I ran into the woods with the might of angels pushing my steps forward. I knew where the waves began, and I knew where they ended. I used to be the child who hid some secrets from his mother, and visiting the river used to be one of them.

Branches struck my face and mud slowed my steps. Little creatures flew past me, trying to get a taste of my blood. What I quickly realized, too, was that night kept drawing closer, and soon enough, darkness would be crowned in these woods. I still was not certain whether what I was doing was correct, but if I could save a life that day, I would be most grateful to the Lord for choosing me to be the one.

The sounds of the crashing waves reached me first. I knew I was close, but soon enough, the riverbank appeared in all its glory. The water flowed fast, unbothered, neutral. The gift that kept us alive and the blade that took our lives. I ran along the river.

It did not take long before I saw a silhouette. However, it was not in the river. Actually, it was pretty far away from the water, and it was standing. Who could be there at such an odd moment?

It was the blacksmith’s son.

He had tears in his eyes. It seemed as though he had expected me. There was no surprise; he just stared at me, with some kind of pity and even disgust in his gaze. His hands were clenched into fists, as if he hid some despair in that frail, tiny body.

I walked up to check whether he was all right. There was nobody to save right now. Or, at least, maybe he was lost? Even if there was no immediate danger, I could have shown him the way back to the village.

I spoke peacefully, trying to convince him to follow me. Our families knew and respected each other, but he was still deeply disturbed. I did not want to make a child more afraid than he already was.

“Come with me, youngling. We’ll get you to your mother...”

“Your father was crucified here.”

I stood frozen. There must have been something I had misheard.

“Excuse me?”

He turned back and pointed at a nearby tree. He began to wail in an agonizing fashion, some hidden fear flowing out of him.

“Fool, can’t you see the nails in the branches? They are still crimson to this day.”

I walked up to the tree. There were indeed nails stuck in the branches. And they were crimson.

Filled with fear and questions, I still could not move. I was in shock. This child had begun talking about my father, who had gone to war and fought for the king. What did this place have to do with him? What was he mumbling about? Why had I come here anyway? Lord, please show me...

“You’ve checked the river, then.”

The same voice. The man who had walked up to me near the fields. I moved my head violently to gaze into his eyes.

These were my eyes. That was my face.

It was my father.

A feeling I had never experienced exploded inside me. I lost all sense of time and place. I lost my balance, falling onto my back. Mud and rotten leaves stuck to my clothes. Mother would be mad.

I wanted to scream, but I could not. Or could I? Maybe I was screaming, yet I could not register it? I could not believe my senses. Was I dreaming once again? Impossible. I could feel my limbs hurting; I could feel sweat on my forehead. What stood before my eyes was all that God had imagined. Or was it the abyss? Had I finally given up and fallen into the deepest of holes? Were the devils about to point their fingers and laugh at me as I burned eternally?

Suddenly, there was no father before my eyes. But somebody else stood nearby. My heart trembled with shock, as if some rotten beast had eaten my whole family alive.

It was the wandering stranger. All black, a hood on his head, shadow on his face. A ruby staff in his hand, the light shining as bright as the sun multiplied a thousand times. He spoke no words; he did not move a muscle. I should have gazed at him longer, but I heard something terrible behind me.

Turning back, I saw my father again. He resembled the Lord I had seen in the chapel: naked, bleeding, afraid. His face was contorted with feelings unimaginable to somebody who had never suffered. His wrists were a mess. He suffered for the greatness of our Lord, as his trembling body turned into a pile of rotting flesh. A crown of thorns hurt his head, little spikes robbing him of any moment of calmness. The purest picture of suffering.

I had not even taken it all in when the child began talking through his tears. If that even was the child I knew.

“It was three years ago. That man, if I can call him a man, took my brother away. Not by force, not with blood. They simply happened to appear in a certain place together, with no more eyes to witness it. He took something from my brother no one could return. There was something disturbing about that man. I could sense it. It was the way he looked at us. It was the words he said. It makes sense that you felt safe in your home. The Lord says that you must respect what is yours. That man believed that with all his might. I only wish he had listened to all the words our Lord had said. My brother committed the greatest of sins on this very branch. He will boil for eternity in the Devil’s blood. And that is all the fault of your kin. Therefore, we punished him the way he deserved. His trembling face satisfied us, but it never made my brother return. It pains me to know they will burn in the same realm. I am sorry that it happened, but it was an act written by God’s servants centuries ago. It was all planned and left for us to embrace and suffer through. I hope you can understand. That is the truth, and it is for you to decide how to react to it.”

Silence. A delicate wind on my rosy-red cheeks. My muscles relaxed a bit as I sat on the moss. The sun was crimson, its rays touching me through the trees. Such a beautiful evening.

The words I had heard barely pushed through my mind, yet an action was taken. I guess it had already been planned by the Lord’s servants centuries ago.

I picked up a rock and smashed the blacksmith’s child’s head in. He instantly fell to the ground with the first hit, but I made sure to deliver a few more. I deserve some forgiveness. I just wanted this... event to end. I wanted to be out of this realm. I wanted to wake up in my mother’s house, a stupid village child who only knew how to harvest crops. Damn it all.

Crimson kissed my skin as it left the child’s face. I knew there would be no more breath from that body, but I kept hitting anyway. I must have been possessed in that moment. I had listened to all the sermons from our monks; I had memorized them word by word. This was not my sin. It was the Lord’s fault. His servants had brought this fate upon me. Damn this day.

I stood up from the twitching body. My father was still crucified to the tree. The stranger still stood silent. His ruby staff still shone brighter than the sun.

Then the devils appeared.

Skinny, rotten flesh. Some moving unnaturally like snakes, some flying like insects, others running on all fours with saliva dripping from their mouths. Ugly faces a mother hopes her baby does not have. Horns, tails, tongues, claws, heads growing out of their crotches, missing limbs. They all stopped a few steps away from us: the murderer, the suffering, the dead, and the silent.

They pointed their fingers and laughed.

Hissing and growling, cheering and howling. A nightmare in its purest form: dirt and mud, the river flowing with blood and guts. I saw my sister’s face somewhere. The monsters did not dare move toward me, but they all laughed with their excitement, their disgust, their glory.

Then the blacksmith appeared. Twitching on the ground, the muscular body looked as if it was being possessed by the whole abyss itself. The loudest screaming you could ever hear. Eyes so wide. All white.

“SAVE ME FROM THE STRANGER! SAVE ME FROM THE STRANGER! OH, LORD! SAVE ME FROM THE STRANGER!”

My knees hit the ground. I began to pray.

“Even if the grandest of evils stands before me...”

(MURDERER! CHILD KILLER!)

“...the Lord still stands with me. He believes in me...”

(YOUR FATHER IS ONE OF US! LET HIM SUFFER FOREVER!)

“...because I know that even if I reach the abyss itself...”

(WE WILL TASTE YOUR YOUNG FLESH RAW.)

“...the Lord stands with me, and I am not afraid.”

The forest screamed loudly that night in the crimson light. The crimson came from the lonely sun hiding behind the horizon.

The sun shone like a ruby, held by the wandering stranger.

21M. Finished Bachelor's and tried going for Master's immediately after. I may fail miserably.

I have 2 classes failed and there may be more. I can continue into another year, but I can fail 4 subjects max. Of course I'm gonna pay for everything, but that's the good scenario. These finals are stressing me out. Several subjects have difficult exams and already I failed one exam. I need to repeat the test in a few months.

This whole university life makes me really unhappy. I don't feel proud of my achievements, I'm stressed most of the time, I escape into alcohol and loneliness. I barely go out and I have little to no hobbies.

Some of my friends left the academic career and went straight into jobs. It's not ideal, but I feel like they are enjoying themselves. They have more money and travel a bit, while I still have to survive on savings and parent's help.

I wish I had gone for job hunting instead. I might have been a happy person now. Instead I'm a miserable wreck who may lose a year of his life. Fuck it.

Started Master's at a tougher uni. First year was really tough on my mental health, at a certain point I practically gave up. Finished with 6 classes passed and 2 failed (need to repeat them).

Finals during this semester are stressing me out. I have 9 subjects, passed 2 so far. I need to pass at least 7 to stay here.

I'm so tired honestly. I've been learning/making projects for about 2 weeks already and I still have some deadlines amd exams (some of which are pretty difficult). I already need to pay for repeating classes and I may have more repeats (4 per year is the maximum here). And that's the good scenario, I may fail miserably.

It's too much. I just want this piece of my life to finish, just to get some peace of mind.

Moja historia :). Ukończyłem licencjat na średnio wymagającym kierunku i magistra zacząłem na uczelni uważanej za topkę krajową.

Start nie był dla mnie łatwy. Bardzo dużo zmian, utrata kontaktów i wyższa poprzeczka. Do tego powybierałem fakultety trochę bez myślenia, przez co skończyłem z trudnymi dziadostwami. Po załamaniu nerwowym i kilku zwątpieniach 1 semestr zakończyłem z bilansem 6 zaliczeń i 2 potencjalnych warunków.

Drugi semestr okazał się lepszy, oswoiłem się z uczelnią, wybrałem ciekawsze fakultety. Niestety sesja mnie ostro maltretuje. 9 przedmiotów, póki co 2 zaliczone, z pozostałych są 3 trudne. Dodatkowo nie wiedziałem, jak działają podpięcia i wziąłem dodatkowy przedmiot na darmo myśląc, że normalnie zaliczy mi slot w przyszłym roku xD.

No i sedno sprawy. Chcę powalczyć o tą uczelnię. Jest tu liberalnie, jeśli chodzi o warunki, więc mogę wziąć na rok 4 takowe. Zaliczenie 7 przedmiotów jest jak najbardziej realne. Ale czy dam radę w przyszłym roku? Nie lepiej powtórzyć obecny rok i pozdawać, co się nie uda? Biorę pod uwagę zostanie rok dłużej zwłaszcza, że do szkoły poszedłem rok wcześniej, więc się wyrówna na 0 :).

Co myślicie?

Ok, just to specify. I'm not ace, I'm a straight guy. I do have libido, maybe on a lower scale, but still. I do find most of the girls I know attractive.

With that out of the way, I really don't want a relationship. And I'm not gonna get a hookup, so I'm practically voluntarily celibate now.

My reasons? Lots of them. First of all, it's so tiring emotionally. Every time a relationship ends, I'm drained. This life alone is really peaceful. Also I don't have to remember about anyone too much and I can spend time mostly hovewer I want. Moreover no drama about random shit. I don't miss that.

I've been called weird and selfish already for that. I don't consider myself any of these. I may be lazy and procrastinate too much, but I believe my reasons not to date are reasonable. It's just that being single is I believe more socially acceptable for women and whenever guys do that they are labelled as oddballs.

I also don't think like "maybe one day I'll have one". It's more like "I don't feel like it rn so I won't do that". Therefore, no effort with dating. Plus it's not like I prioritize "taking care of myself" or career development. What I care about is enjoying life any way I can search for. Might seem hedonistic and it probably is.

Does anyone feel a similar way? Not wanting to sound edgy, but sometimes I feel like I think in a completely different way than the majority. Please tell me you understand lol.

I had one relationship in my life. It was good for a while, but sucked after some time. Its depressing, cause this mid time was one of the best in my life. At least I experienced something.

I've benn talking to several girls and none of them wanted me. I'm undesirable, idk why. Whenever girls get close to me I mess up something and they stop responding .

I'm so done with life. Every day its just waking up experiencing the same misery and no shit happens. I'm so anxious and depressed because of that.

What should I do? Any tips on how to get my life going? I'm 4th year of uni if anyone cares