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I Dont Know Anymore - Blog Posts
“full fridge restock” style video but it’s me putting all my meds in my weekly pill counter
Sure wish i weren’t living thru a major historical event
I want to help but barely can and that really sucks, a lot of people are not experiencing the issues upfront but said issues still affect us all.
I feel like I know what I am but I don't know how to accept it. Nothing feels right anymore, so I'll stay nothing.
Gen Z
We're sad and we're gay.
// Tooth and Nail stream spoilers
So that was quite a lore stream wasn't it?
Just dear god
...
(Long tambling below and more nonsense thoughts)
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On one hand, STILL A POSSIBILITY FOR C!OWEN AND C!MAGIC TO RIP MY HEART OUT AND DESTROY MY EMOTIONS THANK GOD
FINALE PART ONE IN EIGHT DAYS LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO
But my god
c!Owen killed them all, he really, he actually got away with all of them. He isolated them all and watched them all die, made sure that no one would ever find them. And just god, he actually killed them all.
He has done it.
He destroyed his home, bashing in crates and the fencing. Scattering all his things and letting vines overgrow. He had no home, there was no home. He let his thoughts consume him, laughing as he spiralled down and down and down and down.
He wanted it all to end, he wouldn't accept anything other than one of them to die after this. He was tired and if it ended with him, so be it, but he couldn't let himself live and Krow live as well. He wanted an ending of some sort to a war that ended long ago that he KEEPS FIGHTING WHEN HE DOESN'T NEED TO AND I-
*sobs*
And just that little part where we heard his father's voice, and he jumped back (probably hit himself), gooooodddd lord I feel unwell about that part. Dear god.
And yet
Puddy
He didn't kill Puddy, he still cares he cares maybe I dunno he just-
He told Puddy to stay in the second clearing and he didn't butcher him like we thought. Didn't offer up Puddy to Guts. He didn't discard all his attachments, he let Puddy go and live on in the ruins of another clearing. And told the little piglet who had been his sole comfort, who saw his little mistakes, hear his little poems and rants and pains. A companion who saw Owen in those long hours of writing down a will that no one will probably read. To them, Owen told the little piglet that he shielded from Krow's dagger, he told Puddy to stay away...
He didn't discard all his attachments.
I don't know how to feel anymore.
I'm fucking inconsolable just my god.
On one hand, c!Owen has always been on this road, a path in which he can't return from, he has been on it since he turned away from c!Apo, who he grieved and cried over, who haunted him for years in cherished memories. He was doomed when he told the tiefling to run back and he sealed his fate by ending Apokuna. The one person that carried more weight in his mind than anyone else had before he remembered.
And for Rasbi, he didn't even give a chance.
She never stood a chance.
And I don't know how much weight Graecie's words would hold. If she even wakes up in time, if she sees Owen and learns how much he has changed. If she will care enough to reach out after learning all he has done.
And Magic.
He used Magic and in the end, he betrayed her trust and he used her to kill. And she was never meant to be the one to save him, she would not be able to, I don't think.
I don't think there is anyone that could change his mind, on one walking in the maze or existing beyond its confines that could make him want to be redeemed. No one that could make him leave the hill collapsing on itself, step away from that ledgd, a cage filling up and drowning him.
I don't think anyone could convince him to save himself.
They wouldn't forgive him anyways, for good reason after all. He killed the demons and he deceived them all, he did the worst of them all really. Why save the monster that hurt them so much, who would only remind them and hurt them because he blinds himself and would deny he had done wrong.
Too much wrong.
He can't be saved and he won't allow himself to be saved.
I know
I know
...
But I am a fucking fool holding out, and even if Puddy is doomed to the maze burning them all, I don't care. Owen loves that goddamn pet and I can't help but see the Owen that loved once when he told Krow to leave him with Puddy. And I want him to stop, god I want him to want to change even if he sealed his fate and would be hated forever. I WANT HIM TO HEAL STILL I WANT HIM TO BREAK THE CYCLE
AND I HATE THAT I CAN'T SEE HIM DOING THAT
But still I want him to and I am clinging onto hope like a drunk fool.
I want the Owen that hesitated to hurt, the one that wanted them all to thrive, the one that would reassure his friends, who was a protector.
I want the Owen that cared back.
The one that cared to live
The one that wanted to return home.
I miss him, goodness I miss him.
Because as much as I cheered on Owen and looked on for all he has done, he doesn't do it because he enjoys it, despite what he says.
He has hurt others and he lets himself stay hurt.
Killing Krow, the last of the demons in the clearing won't give him the peace he thinks it will let him have.
Even if he somehow hides it any longer, even if narratively someone wasn't going to probably find out what he has done, it will eat himself up inside.
It is a hollow victory that means nothing.
It was never was going to give him that closure he chased after for so long.
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The closure he will never give himself, staying as he is. He was never going to get a happy ending, staying as he was.
And really that is what it comes down to, changing, recognizing truly what is done and the emptiness and that he sealed any chance of forgiveness from anyone left that cared.
It is the closest a person can get to being irredeemable. By refusing to change, over and over.
And would it matter, when there is no time left to change?
Wait, what if Halloween in my fantasy world is celebrated like this?
The night of the Festival of Departed Souls began in an eerie stillness. The air was thick with anticipation as families gathered along the riverbanks and in front of their homes, cradling delicate lanterns infused with spirit energy. Each flickering flame cast a warm, golden glow, their reflections dancing upon the water’s surface—except the water did not move. It was an unsettling stillness, as if the river itself had forgotten how to flow. Not a single ripple disturbed its glassy expanse, not a whisper of current beneath the lanterns. The surface was too smooth, too perfect, as though the world itself had paused to pay its respects to the dead. Against this frozen tableau, the lanterns gleamed like scattered stars, their light a defiant warmth against the cold, uncaring abyss of the night.
The lanterns, once set adrift upon the river, pulsed gently, their ethereal glow acting as beacons for souls who had yet to find their way. Some lanterns hung from wooden beams or were strung along doorways, guiding spirits home for a single fleeting night.
Then, the bell tolled.
A deep, resonant chime echoed through the land, signaling the arrival of the lost. The first ripple disturbed the water, and with it, the air grew thick with unseen presences. Some were faint, mere whispers in the wind, while others coalesced into translucent forms, eager to reunite with the world they once knew.
As the spirits emerged, the living welcomed them with outstretched hands, guiding them toward the festival’s grandest tradition—the Dance of the Departed. In the town square, lit by the glow of lanterns and moonlight, the music began.
A haunting yet playful melody rose into the night, its rhythm dictated by a drumbeat that mimicked the steady, inevitable march of time. The living and the dead stepped in unison, partners grasping hands, twirling and swaying in seamless harmony. Every four verses, the circle shifted—partners swapped, hands released, and new ones found. Some dancers held firm grips on familiar fingers, faces alight with bittersweet joy. Others twirled into empty space—yet, in the stillness between movements, they felt it. A lingering warmth, the ghost of an embrace, a whisper of laughter.
They danced in a flowing, hypnotic pattern, the steps simple yet mesmerizing. A gentle step forward, a slow twirl, a playful bow, then a sweeping motion of arms as if embracing the air itself. The spirits moved without weight, their feet gliding just above the ground. The living followed the same motions, their bodies swaying in a rhythm that felt eternal, as if this dance had been performed since the dawn of time.
And through it all, voices lifted in song, accompanied by ghostly laughter and eerie chimes.
“Tip-tap, hear the bones snap,
The living shiver, the ghosts all clap!
Shadows dance in the midnight ring,
Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!”*
The dancers clasped hands, twirling in unison as lantern light flickered across their faces. Spirits grinned, their luminous eyes glinting with mischief.
A sweeping turn, a playful stomp. The dancers clapped their hands as they shifted partners, the spirits flickering like candlelight. The energy grew wilder, more frantic, feet tapping faster as the verse quickened.
“Knock-knock, who’s at your door?
A ghastly guest, a friend once more!
Say my name and don’t you scream,
Or I’ll haunt you in your dreams!”
As the chorus rose, the dancers moved faster, weaving between seen and unseen partners. The spirits glowed brighter, their laughter blending with the chorus.
“Oh-ho-ho, the veil is thin,
The dead march out, the fun begins!
Feed us sweets, we'll play along,
Or we’ll drag you to our song!”
They lifted their arms in unison, hands joining before twirling apart. A misty breeze swirled through the square, carrying laughter that had not been heard in decades.
“But fear not, love, it’s all in jest,
Tonight we dance, tonight we rest!
And when the final bell does ring,
Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!”
Another shift, another swirl. The rhythm slowed, movements becoming gentle once more. The spirits, though still alight with joy, began to flicker faintly. The song neared its final lines, and with it, the dance came to its close.
“A debt is paid, a gift is owed,
The Reaper walks where lanterns glow.
For every soul who’s lost their way,
He guides them home, he lets them stay.”
With one last bow, the dancers parted, their breath coming in quiet gasps. The spirits, flickering like candlelight, lingered for only a moment before beginning to fade.
"So eat, and drink, and dance around,
Before we go beneath the ground!
Farewell, farewell! ‘Til next we sing—
Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!"
When the final verse echoed into the night, the bell tolled once more, signaling the time for remembrance. Families gathered before their ancestors’ graves, sitting cross-legged in the cool grass. This was not a moment of mourning but one of celebration. Stories were shared, laughter rang out, and the spirits, visible only to those who listened closely, sat beside their living kin, whispering of days long gone.
It was also the time of renewal. Some spirits, dissatisfied with their original funerals, made their demands known. A long-dead grandfather scolded his descendants for letting the family house fall into disrepair. A mischievous brother who had died young demanded his funeral be redone, this time with an entire band playing an overdramatic battle theme. A mischievous voice carried on the wind: “My first send-off was dreadfully dull! I want a rap battle instead!” And so, with grinning faces, the living honored the request. A makeshift stage was built upon the grave, and one by one, family members took turns exchanging verses, their rhymes playful yet heartfelt. The spirit, delighted beyond words, watched with a broad, spectral grin.
For others, the ceremony was more traditional—tombs were cleaned with utmost care, graves reburied if necessary, and spirits were consulted on their final wishes. The Watchers of the Departed, clad in skeletal garb, roamed the graveyards, tending to the forgotten souls, ensuring that even those without families were honored.
Finally, as the last tales were told and the graves gleamed under lantern light, offerings were prepared. The living crafted delicate candies and treats, placing them upon altars and grave markers. The dead received these gifts not as sustenance, but as blessings—wishes for a peaceful passage and a painless death when the time inevitably came for the living to join them. “May you die old, not young. You’re far too interesting to go so soon.”
All the while, atop the highest ground, the Grim Reaper stood. Cloaked in shadows, scythe in hand, he watched over the festival with quiet solemnity. It was his duty to ensure every soul had enough energy to take form, if only for this single, fleeting day. And for that, many came to him in gratitude.
As the final bell tolled, the spirits began to fade. The lanterns dimmed, one by one, as the river carried them further and further into the horizon.
And as the last flicker of spirit light vanished into the dark, the Grim Reaper turned, his work complete for another year.