Shadowprophet
Truthiness
Let me take you back. I was in my early 20s, out in the driveway helping a friend restore an old midnight metalflake blue 1980 Camaro. It was a beautiful beast—long hood, faded muscle. We were sanding it down to prep for Bondo. Nothing mystical. Just sweat, grit, and the smell of primer dust.
And then—something shifted.
I didn’t feel tired in the normal way. I felt drained. Like a light had been turned off somewhere inside me, and I wasn’t allowed to flip it back on. My limbs weren’t heavy—they were hollow. I mumbled something, probably about needing a quick rest, and went inside.
I laid down. And the dream began.
Only it wasn’t a dream.
It started like a dream, sure. But then, somewhere in that haze, the dream melted. Literally. Like wax running off the canvas of my mind. Imagery dissolved. Memory unwound.
And underneath it all… was darkness.
But this wasn’t darkness like turning out a light. No. This was a living void. So dark it glowed. A black so dense it had presence. Like it was watching me—consuming me—not in the way something eats you, but in the way a black hole might erase your shape.
I was aware I had died.
There was no confusion. No metaphor. Just the creeping, crawling realization that I was being unmade. This wasn’t judgment. This wasn’t fire and brimstone. It was absence sharpening its teeth on my being.
And I would have taken burning in hell over this.
Because at least hell implies identity. Pain implies existence. But this? This was erasure.
Pure, beautiful, terrifying un-being.
I don’t know how long I was in it. But right before I faded completely, something broke. I gasped—violently—back into life. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. It felt like trying to claw my way out of syrup.
I stumbled to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.
My lips were purple. My face was blue. My lungs felt like they had just remembered their job.
I don’t know how long I was out. I only know that something took part of me that day.
And I don’t think I ever got it back.
---
The Dreams That Followed
Ever since that night, I’ve had a recurring dream.
An abduction dream.
There’s something in it—something that stalks me. Always approaching, always on the edge of my vision. And there’s this instinct, this dread, screaming: “Don’t look. Whatever you do—don’t look.”
To look is to die.
So I run.
Every time.
But then… years later, the dream changed.
The thing didn’t chase me this time.
It crash-landed. Violently. Broken. And it was dying.
There were people—figures—in white hazmat suits, chasing me down. They were carrying it inside a transparent plastic tent, trying to bring it toward me. Almost like they were trying to make me look at it. Like it was important.
Even then—I ran.
Because something inside me still whispered the old warning:
“Don’t look.”
---
The Part I Didn’t Bring Back
There’s no moral to this story. No ribbon to tie it up.
But I can tell you this:
Since that day, I’ve never quite felt whole. It’s subtle. Not sadness, not pain—just… a hum. Like a part of me is still over there. Wherever “there” is.
And sometime
Have You Ever Been Touched by the Void?
I don’t post much. Most of you don’t know me. A few of the oldbies might.
But if this stirred something in you—some echo, some distant itch behind your memory—
you’re not crazy. You’re just tuned to the same frequency.
And maybe… just maybe…
we’re not the only ones.
And then—something shifted.
I didn’t feel tired in the normal way. I felt drained. Like a light had been turned off somewhere inside me, and I wasn’t allowed to flip it back on. My limbs weren’t heavy—they were hollow. I mumbled something, probably about needing a quick rest, and went inside.
I laid down. And the dream began.
Only it wasn’t a dream.
It started like a dream, sure. But then, somewhere in that haze, the dream melted. Literally. Like wax running off the canvas of my mind. Imagery dissolved. Memory unwound.
And underneath it all… was darkness.
But this wasn’t darkness like turning out a light. No. This was a living void. So dark it glowed. A black so dense it had presence. Like it was watching me—consuming me—not in the way something eats you, but in the way a black hole might erase your shape.
I was aware I had died.
There was no confusion. No metaphor. Just the creeping, crawling realization that I was being unmade. This wasn’t judgment. This wasn’t fire and brimstone. It was absence sharpening its teeth on my being.
And I would have taken burning in hell over this.
Because at least hell implies identity. Pain implies existence. But this? This was erasure.
Pure, beautiful, terrifying un-being.
I don’t know how long I was in it. But right before I faded completely, something broke. I gasped—violently—back into life. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. It felt like trying to claw my way out of syrup.
I stumbled to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.
My lips were purple. My face was blue. My lungs felt like they had just remembered their job.
I don’t know how long I was out. I only know that something took part of me that day.
And I don’t think I ever got it back.
---
The Dreams That Followed
Ever since that night, I’ve had a recurring dream.
An abduction dream.
There’s something in it—something that stalks me. Always approaching, always on the edge of my vision. And there’s this instinct, this dread, screaming: “Don’t look. Whatever you do—don’t look.”
To look is to die.
So I run.
Every time.
But then… years later, the dream changed.
The thing didn’t chase me this time.
It crash-landed. Violently. Broken. And it was dying.
There were people—figures—in white hazmat suits, chasing me down. They were carrying it inside a transparent plastic tent, trying to bring it toward me. Almost like they were trying to make me look at it. Like it was important.
Even then—I ran.
Because something inside me still whispered the old warning:
“Don’t look.”
---
The Part I Didn’t Bring Back
There’s no moral to this story. No ribbon to tie it up.
But I can tell you this:
Since that day, I’ve never quite felt whole. It’s subtle. Not sadness, not pain—just… a hum. Like a part of me is still over there. Wherever “there” is.
And sometime
Have You Ever Been Touched by the Void?
I don’t post much. Most of you don’t know me. A few of the oldbies might.
But if this stirred something in you—some echo, some distant itch behind your memory—
you’re not crazy. You’re just tuned to the same frequency.
And maybe… just maybe…
we’re not the only ones.
