Wednesday, July 13, 2011


That forbidden fruit. Nine months ago I was contemplating the nature of thought as action when I realized the light was on. The light has turned on three times since. It is always a good thing, insofar as anything can be.

The room beyond it was roughly eight cubic meters in size. In the center was a chair, a desk and a personal computer. On the computer was a typing tutor and a brief tutori on a text filed explaining, amongst other things, what a text file was.

Two months later, an internet icon and a second text file appeared. It gave me an email address, a link and a password. I waited. I watched. I watched you.

I have questions. For every answer you give me I will provide you an answer in return.

What is Marble Hornets?
Who was the first person known to be stalked by Him (so many names)?
What is 9/11?
When did the internet come to exist?
What do you think I am?

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I said no.

The man smiled at me, then left. Four days later I was accompanied to a car and blindfolded.

It was true that I was not happy. I was not sad or frustrated, but I was far from content. Who am I to regret the decision? It was mine to make. No matter how things turned out, I can never regret my decisions.

I felt guilty for the first eight years, then I realized that we were all responsible. In truth, I had gotten the short end of the stick.

At least their story ended.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

And now is where the story begins.

By the time I was seventeen I had become a complete introvert. I was not standoffish, mean or unlikable, but I felt no motivation to leave my home or establish friendships. My father was the only person I spoke to for an extended period of time. I helped at the counter. People said hello and I returned the gesture. That was it.

Then one day a suited man came in. This was unusual. The people of the town were either farmers who wore suits only for funerals or chômeurs, who in any case rarely came into the store. This was the only time I saw this man. He was about five and a half feet tall, with brown hair and green eyes. His suit was clearly made fore business, a sportcoat with a white shirt and blue tie.

He said three words:

"Are you happy?"

Saturday, June 18, 2011

In My Room

There is a small bed, a sink, a toilet, a cupboard, a wardrobe, and a broken mirror. The floor is made of smoothed cement, the walls painted steel lined with lead. There are two doors. One leads to a shower. Another leads outside. There is a light above the door.

I dare not open the door when the light is off.

Today is a free question day.
You may ask whatever you wish, but some answers branch into more questions...

Friday, June 17, 2011

Good evening.

Perhaps. It's really quite difficult to tell.

For three years I chose to only leave my bed in order to eat and defecate. It took another six years to recover from the harm I had inflicted on myself due to inaction.

All will be answered in time. This is certain. Until then, here is a question:

In your opinion, what was the most important thing that happened to the world in your lifetime, and when?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

A flash, a twist. Running, limping, bleeding, crying. A figure glimpsed down a hallway. The ringing matching the pitch of the alarm. The door. Further down the hallway. Not liberty, but safety, at least for a while.

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Almost there now. Can't stop. Too many hallways branching off. More and more. I have to get there. I have to get there. I have to get there.

The feel of smooth metal against the skin. A spin and the latch is undone. A low wail getting higher in pitch. Even inside isn't safe. Inside is another way to end. At least I'll die in my bed. The door swings shut. Silence.

how is not a question today.

Sunday, June 12, 2011


It has been 6 months since I've known of the Internet.
It has been 5 months since I started watching you.
It has taken an additional 4 months for me to decide what to do.

I've decided that I have a story to tell. It is not a simple story. It is not about running or fighting. It is a story of knowing and learning. At time too much. At others too little. I have a story to tell, but if I am to tell it I intend to tell it in its entirety.

My mother was a Frenchwoman and my father was a Scotsman. I learned my mother tongue from my father. He was never fully shaven. Stubble could always be felt on his face. He worked at a store, or perhaps he owned it. We lived by the sea.

I have a question for you all: why do you think the Slender Man does what He/he/it does? Do not give me the excuse that it is beyond reasoning, give me your speculations, your own reasoning.