Entry 78.4 - The Static Bloom
The rain tasted like static today. Not a pleasant crackle, but the fundamental hum of something…unresolved. It’s been happening more frequently, these moments where the world shifts just slightly out of alignment. I found a bloom in the concrete – a single, perfect violet iris pushing through a hairline fracture. It felt aggressively wrong, like a misplaced note in a symphony. I attempted to sketch it, but the charcoal refused to hold the shape. It dissolved into grey whispers.
The sensation intensifies near the old clock tower. The chimes aren’t just sound; they’re a pressure. Like trying to hold water with my mind. I've started keeping a log - meticulously dated, of course – detailing these fluctuations. It’s a futile exercise, I suspect, but the act of recording seems to…contain something. Or perhaps it simply confirms what was already there.
Echoes from the Foundry
The smell is persistent: iron and ozone, mixed with something sickly sweet. I don't recall *making* it, but it’s always present when I think of…her. She was assembling gears, endlessly turning them, her hands moving with a terrifying precision. The foundry wasn't a place of work; it was a space of transformation. She wasn't building machines; she was dismantling consciousness.
There were children there too – pale and silent, their eyes reflecting the flickering lamplight. They collected discarded cogs and springs, arranging them into intricate patterns that resembled faces. I tried to speak to them, but they didn’t acknowledge me. Just…watched. The memory is fractured - a kaleidoscope of metal and shadow, punctuated by her laughter – a sound like grinding stone.
I believe the key lies in the viscosity of recollection. It's not about remembering *what* happened, but how it *feels* to remember.
The Weight of Unsent Letters
I’ve been collecting them – letters I never sent. Pages filled with carefully constructed arguments, declarations of love that felt hollow even as they were written, apologies offered in the wrong tone. They pile up like fallen leaves, each one a testament to my inability to articulate the things that truly mattered. The paper is brittle, almost translucent in places, as if it's slowly dissolving into regret.
There’s a particular letter from 1987 – addressed to a woman named Seraphina. I can practically feel the rain on my skin when I read it; smell the clove cigarettes she smoked. The words are beautiful, desperate even, but they never reached her. The thought of that…that unfulfilled potential is a constant ache.
Entry 81.2 - The Humming Stone
Found it today – a grey stone, perfectly smooth and oddly warm to the touch. It sits on my desk now, emitting a faint hum that I can feel more than hear. It seems to amplify…everything. My anxieties, my hopes, even the static in the rain. When I hold it, the edges of reality blur. The colors become richer, the sounds sharper.
I attempted to analyze its composition, but it resists all attempts at dissection. It's as if it’s deliberately concealing its nature. Perhaps it *is* a part of me – a fragment of my own fractured self, given form and sentience.