As I Walk Through the Shadows

WELCOME! I am truly grateful for all of my readers. You help me to heal through this journey.

THANK YOU ALL!

The mob knocks—not just at the door, but inside the mind. As I Walk Through the Shadows fragments the line between memory and distortion, survival and control. This entry captures the coded language of initiation—“orphans,” “misfits,” “ROCA baby”—shaped by an unspoken system, tested by chaos. Glitches in the feed mirror fractures in thought. The pressure isn’t outside anymore; it’s crawling under the skin. As the protagonist confronts identity, authority, and the erasure of clarity, questions begin to echo: Who attacked? Who thinks? Who watches? Each line pulses like static from a corrupted screen, revealing flashes of pain, reflection, and resistance. This isn’t a cry for help—it’s a coded transmission. And only those who can read between the static will understand the weight behind the silence.

What if the truth wasn’t spoken, but scattered in fragments?

These entries aren’t for everyone. They’re for those who see between the lines.

From isolation to insight, chaos to clarity—each journal unlocks a coded world of survival, identity, and the shadows in between.

Follow the fragments. Ask the right questions. Decode later.

Knock! knock! knock!

Who is it?

The mob.

Ha hah ha.

The door trembled under the weight of their fists, the sound sharp like the crack of thunder in a quiet room. I stood frozen, my breath caught in the back of my throat. The light flickered. I felt their eyes—sharp, hungry, closing in.

A slow smile spread across my face, but inside, I could feel the shadows twist.

It was always like this. The mob, the pressure, the sound of my pulse thrumming in my ears. But this time, it felt different. Their presence wasn’t just outside. It was inside me, crawling beneath my skin.

You guys are now orphans!

Yup yup yup!

Then to the misfits!

Let’s bombard the feed with ammunition against our peers.

No wait? Isn’t this for discretion?

Big Brother, I thinketh therefore I am.

Thought, e-me.

I could feel the world shifting under my feet, as if everything I knew had been ripped from its foundations. The familiar faces, the harsh words, they all blurred together.

As I walked through the shadows of death,

flashes and fractals of life,

The mess—my only truth—

Burns bright, flickers, fades.

Thoughts collide,

Cause you either ride or collide (ROCA baby!)

bold yet ghosted,

scattered like shards of glass—

Sharp, cutting.

Steel presses.

The lead scrambles—

A scream echoes,

Then silence, cold like venom.

Relief drips from my skin,

But the snake strikes first—

Its fangs lodged in my chest.

Who attacked?

The walls spin,

binds twisting in the air—

sense impressions,

voices crashing like waves,

Crashing against a brittle mind.

Wtf—surely this is all a dream,

or a nightmare,

blurred, tangled,

Like my thoughts—

My conditioned mind,

needs the thought, me,

To unravel.

The screen glitches.

In the spaces between breaths, the synapses fire erratically—what was once a steady current, now scattered. Thought, fragmented, caught in a loop.

E-me, it says again, but this time—who is the “e”? Who is the “me”?

The mob is silent now, their voices drowned in static. The feed flickers, and I wonder if I’m still watching or simply being watched.

I close my eyes, but it’s still there—the thought, still ringing, still pressing, still me—and I can’t tell if it’s my mind or the screen speaking anymore.

End Transmission.

This entry is chilling, but still beautifully fractured. It builds a rhythm between raw memory, surreal distortion, and cryptic language, almost like a transmission glitched through time and trauma.