It was stupid. Stupid like allways. I thought "I shouldnt worry" "try new things", but now I know that I should allways just keep not doing it. Because Now I have to write it down.

The dream began like all dreams - a feeling of detachment, the muted tones of all the sound gnashing so subtely yet relentlesly vibrating as if it came from nowhere and everywhere at once. And I was all alone.

So a standard dream, not much different from the many years I spent in a daze, the state that helped - if you can use that word for all the sins I commited - me do all what I wish I could say was too good to do but, more honestly was probablly just what I was to squirmish to execute properly. As Ragnarok pointed out so perfectly - I was just making it harder on us all out of selfishness. If I truly cared back then I would have just-

The void, which I was standing, or atleast existing - if that isnt too noble of a word for my condition - in was shapeless - not even just pitch black, because even that has a form, contours to describe, warm corners to be familiar and intimate with - no it was something else. The best I could describe it was the results of my cooking atempt last week. Humorous, if for not what was to come.

The shapelessnes shifted as quickly as it does in a dream: No moment to even really comprehend it. Walls glimering with the reflections of a garish orange and brown, the result of candle light bouncing of the half-wet surface, scuffed wall textures, as if it was the skin racked of from nightly anxiety and insomnia. But the real nerve-racking thing still laid in front of me.

Mo-

Medusa was sitting at a wooden table. Writting something down. She was nearly drowning in shadow, only to be lit by candle light. The light, I realised, I was holding in my fingers which were somehow more pathetic than usuall - I was still a kid. Or maybe I wasn't because was I ever after what she did, what I did?

As instinctivly as I did for all these years, I brought the light closer to her, moving as easily as on an assigment, with all the contorted jerky movement and frozen grimace as if it was filled with botox.

Snake poison that makes one unmoving, unchanging - she never did something like that to me, maybe because that would make me too much of a doll, a thing that even if only a plaything,one cherishes, something I am not. That - I was not to her, I mean. I hope.

But in a way she treated me with a more toxic venom and even in this moment her hand moved and it slap- No, I cant lie too myself, I promissed so to Maka, to Marie and too all of them. Even if I'm not worth it, I have to write it for them.

She didnt hurt me, even if I wish I could write that. Instead she simply, gently brushed my hair. I don't even know how I am writing this. I don't want to admit it. It is sick, but in that moment I felt the warmth, not the warmth of the candle wax burning my fingers but something that remembering it after waking up stings a manifold times more - the love of a mother.

I

Then there

Xxxx

She started speaking to me, in a voice lacking the dissonance of all other sounds that dreams have. No hissing or booming. "Do you know what this is? The book of life, with so many names in it, and I am striking them out one out at a time, do you want to help me?"

It would seem that I should answer or do something next, but as in many dreams, there seemed to be a scene missing. The only thing I remember is my voice, shaking as a glass during a busy prom dance, asking "W-Will y-you strike out my name too?"

"Oh my dear dear little Crona, how silly, how quaint. You really think that someone like you could even dream of having a name written here?"

I woke up to the cackles of her maniac laughter still echoing, as if dream and reality merged, the waking nightmare of the real world mocking me, the moon grinning just at me specifically as if I was important enough to be ridiculled in the first place.

I wish I was as smart as Maka, that I could say with confidence that I dont believe in the subconsious, that I without doubt could reveal the sophistry of Jung and Lacan and Freud and all the others. But I am chained to my stupidity, as Ragnarok is chained to me.

So I cant say it all didnt mean anything, didnt say so much bad about me. So much that already is either said or left unspoken do to how obvious it is.

And I would wish I could just say that I was disturbed, scared, frightened do to feeling worthless, being rejected by all and have my friends, Maka, dutifully and selflessly assuring me that I matter that Im not all bad. A sweet relief that I need to sustain myself.

But no, the thing I can't admit, the reason I wish that I never listened to Liz's idea about having a dream journal - oh why couldnt I have spoken like Ragnarok would have if he wasnt distracted with Tsubakis new cooking "Dream journal? What would I write, that you horse faced valley girl got your visage corrected by a disgruntled jockey hitting you more than you hit the lottery on scratch tickets mooched of from that rich kids trust fund!?" (Sorry Liz if you ever find this)

No, I cant escape it with silly excursions and disturbing anecdoctes and hypotheticals - nothing I could write would be more disturbing then the truth I will curse this ink with:

The truth is, while I felt the warmth I felt happy. This love of a mother, my mother, that is what I felt so deeply, so personally, that I cant just write of as weird symbols, random phenomenos, neutrons, chemicals, humors - not any detached explanation could give me the relief from knowing: That somewhere, no matter how deep, or how abjected it is, I still wish and apreciate Medusa, that for a moment, a moment that wasnt real, less than a second of the twisted time of a dream - I loved her.

Am I a coward? Can I change? Because I know I should leave this, that this is what I learned from Maka. To be brave, atleast in little things. In my mind I can rationally understand it - why should I fear what is in a private journal? Nobody is gonna read it, even if they somehow did they would just be confused. It wasnt some horrific perversion or massacre I dreamt up. Or one of "those" dreams.

But still I know myself too well. I will tear out this page, destroy it, live with the shame and guilt of neither accepting my sickness nor overcoming it. Even writing this, I already know - this is only the detachment I need, the ironic self-admitance and pity that absolves me of everything, that what lets me justify everything even if I know it doesnt, as if that knowing just makes me more tragic and conflicted, yes, some tragic figure that one pitys and doesnt just detest, the later being my reality, or what it should be.

So thats how I will deal with it, like allways. Just rip it off. Except if in a moment of bravery, courage or stupidity, I will just post it all on the public forum of the DWMA.

-Posted by "AbyssOfDespair"

Bruh

-Reply by "DjCrossEye"

You need help. Like a therapist. Uggh thats a yikes from me, do better sweety.

-TheHero

Is this that infamous "Crona's poem"

-Reply by "Backgroundcharachter421"

In a way, its only the tip of the iceberg...

- Reply to "Backgroubdcharachter 421" by "ForShadowerMan"

Tl;Dr

-Reply by "TheRealG-raffe"

I will lock this thread and send a notice to your mother, this behaviour is worriyng and disturbing

-Reply by "ImBlueDabude"

Lol he forgot to actually lock it, so much for "thats the man I used to be". Anyways, dunno like the framing device of the diary and the twist of actually posting this then online, also kind of in a meta way making it a "chat-fic".

Still it felt a bit too self indulgent and meandering, and as if it was written in one go, with all typos and grammatical mistakes left in.

But dont know how I know all that, good that Im using a burner account, would be emberassing if people figured out who I am

-Reply by "NotHarward"

-Thread locked, user was warned for this post-