{ 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐒 }
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟮𝟴,𝟱𝟲𝟳 |✓|
As an enthusiast in the paranormal, it came naturally to be enticed into the grotesque, macabre world of Creepypasta experiences in 2014. Among the d...
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I prioritized myself as a coping mechanism after the trauma the experience community dealt me. It became a path of self-destruction—one I willfully chose to ignore the duality of. My empathy withered to adapt with the climate growing colder around me. And with it, the warmth in my sense of joy. I only sought reprieve in a morbid, saddening thought; I planned to leave this world not with a cry, but with a whimper.
I didn't even write a letter. Everybody would've had a mutual comprehension. My misery spoke volumes my voice wouldn't dare reach. I was forgotten. Abandoned without a second thought. A sociable girl among friends turned loner outcast overnight. The same girl who'd later fall asleep counting her final breaths instead of counting sheep.
A month later, I found myself kneeling on my bedroom floor, sobbing at another failed attempt. To find even a guise of light in the proverbial darkness, I turned to Hollywood Undead. The Day Of The Dead album was released earlier the same month, but I hadn't listened to every song yet. At least, not enough to know the nuances in meaning of each one.
On a whim, I clicked on a lyric video in the sidebar of recommendations on YouTube: "Sing." In my heartbreak, the chorus resonated as a desperate plea and an anthem of hope. After what must have been thirty minutes on repeat, I drew emphasis to what I thought were the most crucial words in the chorus: Give. Live. Love. Sing.
I scrawled the words onto my wrist in black Sharpie as a mantra I could rely on for encouragement—rewriting them as they would inevitably fade. Day by day, I collected the shattered remains of my life. And through its fragmented reflection, I crystallized my own sense of self-actualization. A radiant future loomed over the horizon again.
A few months after my eighteenth birthday, I sold my old Playstation 2. With the profits I received, I made sure those words never left me. I had them tattooed in the same place I wrote them for all those years.
Did it hurt to have it done? Yes, but I'd been through worse just to write it in Sharpie.
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