Morphine Ghost

The horrible cacophony in my head never truly falls silent. It only changes its rhythm, as though unseen mouths are taking turns whispering over one another until every thought is buried beneath their arguments. Sometimes they laugh at things I have not done yet. Sometimes they beg me not to remember names I have never heard. On the rare occasions the noise stops, I am never relieved. The silence is worse, because it means they have all turned at once to listen for something approaching from somewhere much closer than my own mind.

Why would you remain? You have already seen enough to understand that nothing here wishes you well. Every page has offered you another chance to leave, yet you return with the stubbornness of prey that mistakes a warning growl for an invitation. Curiosity is not courage. It is merely the first symptom. Stay long enough and you will begin recognizing things that have never happened, hearing your own footsteps where none should exist, and waiting for messages addressed to you before they have been written. If you are still here, perhaps you were never looking for an escape at all.

It doesn't get better. It never does. Nothing here will ever be pleasant. That's not its purpose. The longer you remain, the less hope you'll have. I will make sure of it. Hope is a fragile thing, and I have had a very long time to learn how easily it breaks. Every answer you find will demand another question. Every familiar thought will become suspect. Eventually you will stop searching for a way out and begin searching for permission to stay, convincing yourself there must be a reason you cannot leave. There is. By then, you will no longer be visiting this place. You will be carrying it with you, and I will never have to ask you to come back.