The Horror Of Extreme Observation

Somewhere in the past - yes, tiring and painful, I know - it’s assured, brought more tears than actual close observations of the inner workings of my brain. Many times I’ve explained my victim-hood in childhood, and in young adulthood, to my now restless parents; my hunger for a plot to naturally make my life more amusing from here on - not positive, just amusing - has dumped me in a deep, raging mood at 21. However, I’ve grown a decade of strong observations. I’ll take whatever dreamy thing that becomes available in my waking state of consciousness and in my sleep. To better improve the symbols and motifs and find progress in my plotless life. Whether these have dangerously provoked past emotional bruises than healed them is the least intriguing to me; other than my pretentious writing could prove otherwise.

To provide an outlet on one of the darkest psychological conditions is part of our existence, I believe. One that affects us all. It’s what I call The Horror of Extreme Observation: the lenses that exposes everyone’s script written already; but never being able to warn nor explain the effects it will have on their lives, since everyone is believed to have made the script totally their own, is where the terror of raw life shows its ugly face. Specific behaviors are taken and predicted as such. It’s then, someone, somewhere took these details of mundane life, made them recognizable to the masses, relevant, and yet, struck the nerve in the intriguing being of human nature. Meaning is attached and all thoughts are carefully examined, rather than with the turn of the head. Looking at our own reflections, then, can become too heavy.

This, by understanding the guilt of our existence by our own raw patterns, can we see it connects to a script, built and ready for our arrival. It means, when we observe narratives, patterns, already shaped around particular personalities - definitely, as I say, squeezed from the bruises of past traumas - we assume what behavior and beliefs are going to be used. Thus, when our awareness of a pre-planned destination, put to the forefront of our consciousness, only can we move where this eldritch puppeteer sets us, and make up the rest on our own, as though it was in our best effort to get to the place we are now. Not only are we meatsuits with mirrors upon mirrors - we have become confident in our own climatic deathtraps - not to just destroy ourselves, but to learn, become better than the last horrifying trap that was set up.

To be completely mortified by the blurred lines between our good and evil (yes I used the word ‘mortified') I’ve observed, we are driven to either discipline ourselves from reaching the inner chaos of our minds, or self-deny the intricate workings of already fabricated paths, like a house-wife, bible seller, or becoming a financial businessman at 22. However, these disprove any connection to uncomfortable ledges of horror. Then, are we always found unprepared for when terror does find us. Why is that, I think, annoying myself. It is where the most uncanny hypocrisy and extremists thus partake in completely, in the most violent attempt, to eradicate the littlest of dark, and uncomfortable, in order to purify the whole human narrative as its whole. This, and be careful with this please, is how I find who’s likely to hurt others or themselves, when the ends of suffering and death are seen as complete villains to our well-being, rather than the tools to find more about ourselves and the limits we are set with. Especially if they are seen separate from any dark impulses one has.

This is what sells the good-life, I hear - the promised land, they say - the American Dream, they advertise - a place where death is non-existent; prejudice is clear; and the workings of everyone's minds is seen as a genius, to progress society and the human race, they preach.

But, to me - and this is where I’m frightened on both a psychological, political and artistic level - a world like that is false, plastic. It only keeps the true human ashamed to exist as what I am. Proving hope, yes. But I’m not a monster to be afraid - I’m a human being. This, my form isn’t temporary, in death and during life. On all levels except physical, I am horror and I shouldn’t have to be left behind because of that. If any, not made a myth.

Through school life, scratched by family discourses, I couldn’t stop feeling like a passive observer rather than an active participant. A plot that progressed, not positively, but progressed at least. In sharing the backgrounds of my mother’s and father’s past, an intimate attempt to level with me at my lowest, opened more power I was ignorant I had. This web then spread towards questions between my older sisters, who come from a different father and moments where life got rude - short. And, by that, I developed pain in my chest of wonder and guilt for them.

My entire origin, I still believe, was on a quick course to fill a void rather than to impact, or add more what was already there. In deep dread of my own life, meant a promise, doomed along the most erratical and darkest actions I was yet to commence, sitting and awaiting my arrival. My own discourse, and the developed observations, between behavior and belief on the characters in my own home - momma, dada, sis, uncle, nephew, etc - I didn’t know how to warn them I was, perhaps, doomed a monster - an outsider.

I even considered becoming a school shooter myself… the horror on everyone's faces, their lives obviously set up to take them far in life, in hope, in dread, and in friendship can suddenly be taken in an instant. I began to hate myself, more than my peers. Why am I kept starved and left to collect scraps and crumbs; where in my life, my YOUNG life, did I go wrong for it to be so plotless. No story, no proper pain, no angle to power my connection between peers. Something, I thought, is really wrong here. When the violent thought came I was determined. This premonition on my life, I was convinced finally arrived and was ready to take me away into the dark. I am no human, I’m just a horror; I probably must die then, I thought.

The cases of Covid-19, however, in the United States were beginning to take a toll on people. Cities and towns were set for quarantine, and for many, I can tell, were getting excited. I worried though how many were already angry, like me, and now, how many had to sit with it until something came along to give them an outlet. And, of course, we saw how many were angry, were terrified, and were isolated even before the world shutdown. For me, my own mind was settled, but it needed examining. But, I too was excited what effects this would have. Once the adults noticed, especially my own, that they were living with monsters and dark beings, we were no longer just cardboard cutouts of being a child. We were real. That’s when, one night, searching through streaming I found a trailer for a movie called ‘Shirley.’ A Hulu feature to be watched tomorrow.

I directed myself to watch the trailer for it, and something in it caught my eye. The way this ‘Shirley’ talked, played by Elizabeth Moss, answered and stared at her husband Stanley, who was the real husband of Shirley Jackson. I saw her wicked grin, her big glasses frolicking in this classic, suburban house. There came to me wisdom, a great amount of awe that I haven’t felt in a long time. Then, when searching who this ‘Shirely’ was inspired by, I unlocked a series of short stories. At first, it didn't seem like much, but I knew it brought me back to that feeling of being discovered once again. When I read the end paragraph of her short story ‘The Possibility of Evil’ and ‘Charles,’ it wasn’t long when, for once in my life, I saw a plot developing and a character to invent and a place to be. I finally felt wanted of myself and needed to be alive for it. I then needed more and more, and more. I craved a sudden wake up at night to find myself in a horror story itself: a monster in a fictitious play, the trap of some depraved being who wanted my soul. Finally, I thought, I’m real - I exist. I am.

From here, once I got a good hook on reading fast and viscously, deeply, my eyes led to Edgar Allen Poe, H.P Lovecraft, Thomas Ligotti, Ellan Daltow, Mary Shelly, Algernon Blackwood, Octivia Butler, Robert Chambers, and many others. The obsession was all horror, my deep analytic pain to see what lies beyond. Hoping to be a part of something as strange as the books I read, movies among all was my main goal. Horror movies, they partake the deepest parts of our hearts and souls. I needed some way to be part of it, part self of whatever others wanted me to be, and be who I wanted to be. This, once settled, took me on a journey finding the most human thing of all: Fear. Each stemming me to look closely at my desires, my wants, my needs, and shortcomings - not as villains, but a need to an end for all of us to see what kind of script we are all facing to escape, or chase.

The strange, vile world I seek is the one I live, and the one I end with will be my inspiration forever after. I’m longer as all: the series of dust forming my eyes and feet, that soon promises a return into the dark. The creator, as my dad calls it, is the infinity of moving parts that reflects one mirror after another, creating a matrix of lives, objects, and presence. This is a universe governed by circles and it is my dream to live among it one day, and look back to wonder what little I’ve known, and what messes we created because of it. Horror is the place for me: it's the most honest look into my existence, that promises me nightscapes of dreams, death, and hope. It’s the only one that says my existence is important much like everything else - even after all of this suddenly disappears, and only what is left.