Wednesday, 20 November 2013

H.P. Lovecraft puberty blog #1

January 5th 1903

Begun has a metamorphosis of both body and mind which words of tongue cannot possibly describe. So it is that I sit here wearily and shaken, fingers clasped to a pencil with the hope of communicating the despondent terror of which has enveloped my being.

The hours and days are nameless now. The clock which hangs above my bedroom dresser no longer holds authority, it is merely a ticking torment, affirmation that I am still alive. I do not know how long it has been since last I breathed cool air. I dare not open my windows. I quiver violently at the thought of a rapping door. Though I have known no gods before, trepidation has me bargaining with any of whom will listen and oblige.

It began with the tendrils. Those slender, ebony fibers which grow eagerly from mysterious places that were once white and unadorned. At first I thought it an ailment of the body, a hormonal mutation of which science has yet to identify and undertake. As those tendrils did multiply and stem, so too did my apprehension. Rather than of the body, I began to wonder if it is an ailment of the mind. Has age altered my bodily perception, have these tendrils been present for longer than my mind was capable of acknowledging them? 

I have entered into my fifth week of mutation and I understand that this is no ailment of body nor mind. To even attempt to rationalize the causes of this transformation would be to go entirely mad. I do not wish to excavate any further into a mind I know has already been spoiled. I know that I may not return. Though the clock keeps ticking and I know that I am at least still of this world. 

I do not know for how much longer.

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