A Quark in Black Seas of Infinity

I.

When I dream of a void, I dream of an unending chasm. White shadows whisper, and they eat into my mind. I hear the smells of sacrificial flesh, and see the tastes of foreign meat. But these are only nightmares.

I loathe my place in life. I want to escape, but I cannot. The city never seems to let me leave. At times, it nearly seems intentional- when I try to leave or have an out of town conference, I am always derailed or deferred. To be frank, I have never left the city in my entire life. Though I know that it is surely by chance or lack of ambition, it nonetheless seems entirely wrong. Does the city have a sentience? Logically, I know that is impossible, but these paranoias chill me nonetheless. But I want to leave! I need to leave, or I will die here. If I have decades left of life here, will that provide the opportunity I need? I think not.

I am too listless for violence. Yet- as with the undefinable, uncaptuarable disquiet, it is there all the same. This city should burn. Sometimes, when I am not dreaming of my terrors, I dream of the city burning. I hear the screams, and I am glad. But these dreams are only that, and I am oppressed by the isolating reality.

I believe that this city gives me these nightmares. It pulls me in and scars me. It will never let me go. I may try to fight, but it will always stop me. It cannot be simple coincidence… But it must be. I know it, but what can I do to convince myself? I believe I will never conquer it. Why? Why?

Arkham is a cultish city. I must admit that I do not know the full details. As with far too much, the exact nature of the supposed supernatural is the barest haze seen from the far corner of the eye. There are certain gods worshipped- but not gods of known history. Nothing is certain here- Dirty, grubby deals- often gaudy architecture dating back to the seventeenth century- the poverty stricken, inbred homeless- though better to call them inmates in this place- and the hawkish, crazed freaks who will insist- sometimes calmly, sometimes psychotically- insist on trumpeting the second coming of cryptic abominations. Sometimes, they belong to the malformed, incestuous homeless- and yet, they often come from the starched, clean pressed and diamond watch bearing Bostonian crowd- though nearly always bearing the elephantine ears and flat noses of the inbred.

Miskatonic is a still more cultish university. Ivy League, yes, but a new age, drug addled prestige. There is not a week without new flyers proclaiming new clubs and unions- and students attempting to sneak maudlin, supernatural projects past professors. And the professors often play along, allowing the most fanciful studies to pass as scientific assignments. Students often reach the wildest conclusions when presenting orations pertaining to the university's many mangled expeditions- There is not a week when lengthy narrations on "The lost city discovered in the Antarctic," or "The true conspiracy behind the bombing of Devil's Reef. This bombing was primarily the cause of the past eighty seven years." I am extensively thankful that my career does not involve student contact.

Yes- the entirety of New England seems to be a wasteland of cultish fanaticism. A shame that insane asylums have seen their lives passed! And it seems to be contagious- for the howlings of the wind in the dank streets seems to have truly become the fearsome commands of otherworldly entities- yes, though I have long fought these hysterical psychoses, and though I know the rationality of science abides with me, I have begun to dream of these "Outer Forces." I feel called, in the deathless night, when nightmares are indistinguishable from true night- to fantastic deities. The city's seedy exterior seems to fall away, and I see not the dull tunnels leading to filthy subways, but rather a hub of exultant knowledge, of insects which believe they are crucial servants in the thrall of masters of unknowable pall. And then I see myself among their ranks, among the least dispensable…

And then a terrible revulsion overcomes me, and I see my life ebbing- and I see that I am nothing at all, not even the barest stain upon the fabric of reality. And reality is not a solid presence- no, rather a bubbling, twisting, roiling fabric, outlining terrible secrets beneath which are a deadly insanity- And I do not wake screaming. No, I wake paralyzed, frozen, and I feel great weight upon my chest- a throbbing, thumping agony drilling ever deeper into my brain. And in these moments I nearly pray to a nonexistent god, but cannot bring myself to do so- for the things drilling into my brain are infinitely more powerful than any god conceived by humanity. The world dissolves, and I try to scream- try, try, fight, though I have not the will- and when dawn creeps through the city, I am not comforted.

I cannot say exactly when the paranoia started. I have always been keenly aware of the mysteries around me. Philosophy is first nature to me. Philosophy is a long and honored tradition- it makes sense of a world gone awry. With, it, the unknown is conquered and civilized. Through it, we understand our place in the world. We are simply not in control.

There is hope, surely- there must be hope- and yet I doubt it. What can I believe? Oh, God!

I have had difficulty in finding hope and purpose. These things are impossible to truly pin down. The awful reality of purpose is that it is only a human construct. It cannot be measured, nor will it exist after human demise.

There are infinite difficulties in nihilism- the awful and incredible power of the acceptance of insignificance and the awful power of the universe. I never knew of the painful effects of this thinking.

Once, I was a little more optimistic. I was so sure of a few things- of the importance of humanity, and of my own power. This was when I was a child. I was stupid and foolish. I had so many dreams- so many hopes. How foolish.

Even so, I never found the courage to let go completely. There was something which stayed with me always- the desperate hope of the future. The hope of the future is something awful and choking.

I doubt I will ever find peace- I am simply trapped. I am trapped in a nightmare- one which has no end. There are neverending troubles in the life of a nihilist- a bleak feeling of terror. These things cannot be escaped.

I have always found myself at a crossroads between feelings and fact. This is a strange, painful precipice to perch on.

I find my work gives me purpose. That is where I find peace.

I know that the time to my death is finite and that with each minute that passes, death is brought closer. And I do fear death. I know that death is a part of life, but I fear it nonetheless. Fear is irrational, but I am powerless to stop the signals of my brain. The human brain is a powerful thing, and yet so weak.

I do not know why I am cursed to this knowledge. I know that I do not share a love of friends and fun as my family did. There is nothing but an awful, clinging horror when I think of them- they were unhappy as well. We were all isolated from each other- Mother and Father had a stilted love for me. They tried to be kind and understanding, yet there always remained that horrid tension.

I have always been uneasy. I never knew why. Other people have a sense of purpose and meaning, but I often do not. Where others know contentment and accomplishment, and I do not. There, I know a nagging doubt and discontent.

I have never believed in any god. The idea has always struck me as narcissistic and delusional. Why, I have always wondered, would one believe in something without proof, furthermore furthermore a character from a book?

The afterlife has always struck me as a desperate fairy tale. Why deny the inevitable? There is no soul or divine heaven. There is only the brain. The brain contains the activity necessary to produce the mind. When the activity is gone, the person is as well.

I have never seen a ghost or extraterrestrial. Such things are easily explained with science. These delusions make me laugh, and I should be content with my knowledge.

And yet, I sometimes am caught by a creeping, chilling uncertainty. Often, in quiet moments, dreams, and just between watching and sleeping, I am burdened by a certainty of being watched.

I certainly loathe these delusions, and I have striven to rid myself of them. There seems to be nothing for it, but science should tell me otherwise.

Therapy does not work. I desire medication, but am told I do not need it. I am told my brain is perfectly sound, but why, then does this happen to me?

The doctor tells me that being watched is simply a recurring element in my dreams, but I know it is more.

I fear the feeling may lead to a full break down. I would not ordinarily be troubled, except that I truly believe in this feeling. Though it goes against everything I have in evidence, I truly believe in this feeling.

I suspected schizophrenia, but have never been diagnosed. Expensive tests has revealed nothing, and there is no sense which allows one to know when one is being observed.

I am mortified to consider the implications of the delusion should it be real. If I accept that the carefully constructed devices of science and logic are fallible and based on error, then what do I have to understand the world? The modern age is not one of shadows and monsters and gods, but one of reasons and facts.

It is true that there may be a god, ghosts, and extraterrestrial visitations, but there may also be a teapot orbiting around Saturn. Logic dictates that almost anything is possible, and it is impossible to prove a negative.

Of course, the universe could be filled with vicious, impossible life- I don't deny the impossibility. Yet all evidence points to a lack of extraterrestrial visitation. What will we do if the aliens visit? Who should care? Hopefully, I won't exist at that time. That is the benefit of nihilism- a sure end. I suppose, of course, that nihilism can provide an afterlife, so long as that afterlife is meaningless. And yet, despite my convictions, I know deep doubt. There is a certain uncertainty- yet that is in the nature of the

There are far too many possibilities opened by this paranoia. I cannot allow it to overtake me. I must keep in mind rationality and sense.

I find refuge in my work. Anthropology is an immensely powerful work in the face of loathing and nonsense. I love the old things I examine- bone, spears, books- all hold the beauty of history. The objects soothe me whenever I look at them. They tell me of the excitement of gods and powers, great journeys... The powers of human belief. These things sometimes nearly give me the power to believe in the supernatural and extrauniversal.

Of course, Miskatonic University is full of rumors of the extraterrestrial and the supernatural. It is rather surprising for one of the world's oldest and most prestigious universities.

The Dyer expedition was an absolute disaster, ending in severe psychosis and panic. The entire expedition resulted in serious losses of funds and lives. But I have seen the artifacts brought back- and they resembled no known art style.

These things are something which cannot be simply be pushed away. These things are simply something impossible. The awful nature of the cold and uncaring world is something not to be challenged with flimsy hopes of change.

I am gloomy, yes, and cynical. but that is my dedication and but I am also sure of the necessity. There is the satisfaction it gives to understand the world. There is something which is comforting about nihilism.

The bright sun this morning heralds an unusually hot day, although it is January. The explanation? Dire weather fluctuations, caused by Antarctic drafts. It reminds me of the sun's inevitable death. In four billion years, the sun will engulf our planet.

I do not want to lose hope over these things, but the bleakness sometimes overwhelms me. I want to believe these short lives have meaning, but I know that meaning is a human construct. The simply anticipatory can keep me in the hopes of happiness, and there is the hope of change.

Arkham is certainly a strange city. The streets are oddly bleak, and the strange people are inbred. Secrets are something normal in the town- something boils beneath the facade of the normal life. I have grown up here, and I may well die here. But… These thoughts have passed me before. I find it increasingly impossible to track the thoughts I have experienced before.

The air is often cool in Arkham. The weather is inexplicable; there is too much fluctuation. Sometimes, the the thunder sounds like roars, and the lightning comes in many colors- the awful and thunderous sounds at night. There was something just cold and wrong about it all. I knew that I would be made aware of what it was someday. Someday... And yet, I know that I am rational. These certainties come to me only in the depths of dreams… I swear that I am rational.