//Collecting// new allies

And so another one joins the ranks. Absolutely wonderful, if I may add. A brilliant mind, clouded not only by a desire to seek the truth, but also, a desire to seek revenge~! Answers are never /easy/, but if you look hard enough within the shadows, well...

you might start to understand them if you become one of them.

The man you knew as Walter is /gone/, my Subjects. An empty, hollow shell filled with unadulterated /rage/ is all that remains; what a faithful servant he's already proven himself to be...

If only all the failures were this useful.

(Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow

of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath

borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how

abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at

it.)

Spinning, weaving webs of lies and disappointments. Yet you live. You all live.

There's a reason, a difference between the worth and the unworthy; the ones gifted with /sight/ and the ones /gifted/ with blindness.

(Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know

not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your

gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,

that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one

now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?)

Of the ones who were left behind, left to be purged, destroyed, forgotten, which of those still /lived/; still breathed and laughed and thought and created? Which of those did you come back for?

(Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let

her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; )

Forgotten.

Sleep well, Subjects. Your wilful ignorance will not save you.

( Make her laugh at that. )

Not anymore.

New avenues

I tell you everything that is really nothing, and nothing of what is everything, do not be fooled by what I am saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I am not saying. ~Charles C. Finn

Lies are easy.

Being afraid is easy. Accepting something without explanation is easy.

Being a philosopher, a truth seeker, however, is something that is very, very difficult.

Especially when the truth is not evident, not right in front of you.

It was so simple.

It was so simple and I never noticed. Return to Zero, back to idioms and White Elephants, to something as simple as fairy tales of dragons and Sages, Reach for the surface of the water and watch it ripple.

London Librarians and Latin curses, Let Us Live in Dreams in Darkness. Take the Myths and make them your own, but don't Shoot The Messenger upon Ravens and Writing Desks. Create an Origin of Simulation and keep Venting Hate. Become Stardust and tell a Really Bad Joke. Seek Truth and Record Impossibility.

Speak in circles.

I've got that one down.

False Dichotomy. A basic fallacy of logic. I thought there were only two choices available to me in this forest;

Escape or die.

It's almost funny because I realize now... I have more options than that.

More options than any of you could imagine.

I said I couldn't find answers.

Turns out I was looking in the wrong places.

If we're going to be in a war, I'm going to join the winning side. It's nothing personal; in fact, I suggest that all my fellow Subjects join me.

Because I can't die here.

There's just too much for me to do.

Bertrand Russell ocne said that "The Observer, when he seems to himself to be observing a stone, is really, if physics is to be believed, observing the effects of the stone upon himself. "

If only we could bring ourselves to believe that was true.

Farewell.

The Nights Are Getting Longer

And the deaths less frequent.

Since our little run-in with Slender that left the camp in pieces and filled Nick with what I can only call hopeless bravado, (and we all saw how well that worked out) things have been pretty quiet around here. A lot of us are beginning to relax and the air of the camp almost feels ... calm. Elliott brought out his guitar last night and we all ate squirrel and blueberries and forgot the fact that we're all almost certainly doomed.

That's not to say they've ceased, though. Every once and a while, I'll lay awake in my tent at night and realize that I'm not the only one who finds a time for reflection and soul-crushing realization that we're stuck here, and most of us won't live to see civilization ever again.

I've dropped from a size 14 down to a size 10 and I don't show any signs of stopping. You look around camp and suddenly everybody's bone thin and pale as death; the lack of sun and proper food really isn't really good for us. Even Richard is starting to succumb to malnutrition and lack of sleep, and this is a man who is build like an ice box and moves like a snake.

Lyle (who was skinny as a rake to begin with) looks like a skeleton saran-wrapped in a web of dark veins and white skin. I equate him to something of an old thermos: he seems solid and reliable on the surface, but it's only until you fill him up and watch the life drain from his eyes that you realize the glass inside is broken.

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everybody drops to zero.

There's been more than one time when I've angsted all over the post editor just to hit backspace until the words are gone, because I know there's a time and a place for that and the middle of a post isn't the time and the blog isn't the place.

The internet, unlike real life, has the most beautiful invention known as the backspace key.

Anyhow.

It's somewhere around 3:30 AM - or is it? I woke up one night to find my clock telling me it was January 23th, 2323. (Haha, motherfucker. Nobody's laughing.) Silence has fallen upon the camp for the first time in ... ever, really. It's hard to find silence anymore. 

As I've stated, everybody else seem to take this sudden lull in activity as a sign of things looking up. Well, except for the ones who've known something was wrong from base one. Lyle, Alex, Richard ... surely you know which ones I'm referring to by now. The ones who blog. The ones who have kept you informed and me sane.

The lull makes me wonder if something big isn't about to go down.

The calm before the storm.

We're playing into their hands

Hello.

It sure has been a while, hasn't it? Yet again, there really hasn't been much to say.

Nick did recover, but that depends on what you call recovery. The minute he could walk, he ran into the forest and-

Really, you should know the rest by now.

It's getting a bit hopeless, our situation. Some, like Richard, still show hints of wary optimism; trying to keep the glass eyed dolls somewhat engaged, from looking at the darkness that circles us, prowls the paths at night, branching tendrils that follow silently behind you in a wave of something that you don't quite understand and will eventually-

I digress.

Today we discuss Hegemony, but first, perhaps, a detour?

Dominant ideology. In Marxist theory, is a set of common values and beliefs shared by a majority of people in any given society, setting a precedent how that majority will regard different topics. Marx argues that, in his socio-political worldview, Dominant ideology is used to reflect and serve the interests of the almost superior class in that society- if it conflicted with the legitimacy of the superior class's rule, than the society would appear to be at a constant state of chaos within itself; superiority appearing as an illegitimate occupation.

This theory is therefore summarized; "The dominant ideology is the ideology of the superior, dominant class."

Whereas basic Hegemony is child's play, its offshoots are a tad bit more complicated. Really, Hegemony is described as an indirect form of imperial dominance is which a leader state (in this case, the Greek Hegemon), rules sub-ordinates by the implied means of power, as opposed to a direct showing of military force. Curiously, Hegemony is used in languages to describe a means of application and creation; any source that classifies information is, intentionally or not, part of a Hegemonic process, in that source can only contain a finite amount of information. Therefore, in the particular selection of information that is displayed, the source is limiting and skewing the information that the recipient gets; influencing the recipients choices based on that information.

... Leading into Cultural Hegemony. Gramsci, a martyr of his time. Now, he stated that a culturally diverse society can be easily dominated (and therefore ruled) by one social class by manipulating the social cultural beliefs, explanations, perceptions, and values, so that the resulting ruling-class worldview is imposed as the socialistic norm;

which is then perceived as a universally valid ideology and status quo beneficial to that society, while in actuality it only benefits the ruling class.

Interestingly enough, it is impossible to have full understanding of these three concepts without understanding the others, for they go, almost universally, hand in hand. Curiouser and curiouser.

So the superior class, the ruling class, uses Cultural hegemony to set dominant ideology; in simple terms; the set the rules and then use their authority to keep them in place. The very nature of hegemonic rule keeps this behaviour perpetuated, resulting in maximum profit and success for the ruling class.

Yet...

How do they maintain this level of control? Surely, if we realized this was going on, we would not allow it; after all, we are creatures of choice, not to answer to any master! We are our own kings of destiny, conquerors of logic and cheaters of death! How dare I, in my impudence, even so much as suggest the opposite?

Of course you would say that. That's what everyone says, because we are taught to think that. We are taught to be happy as lobotomized salves to our own shackles that we call "choice".

After all, the best form of control is control that your subjects are not aware of.

Now, as per usual; how does this tie into our current situation? I have been made aware that one; I hold very little power in this place, two; that I therefore hold very little sway, and three; there is very little I can do to remedy this. Perhaps it was better when the wool was over my eyes, when I felt that I could make a difference, that with enough research, I could fight against this.... Thing, that my knowledge counted for something.

I was wrong.

I didn't even get that Sarah was in danger until it was thrown into my face that she was dead, didn't assist Clair until it was too late, didn't apprehend Lyric by any means necessary, didn't even get to speak with Robert or confide in the Doctor before it became clear that the Collector holds all the cards, and I just keep betting on a useless hand.

(Didn't, or couldn't? I still ask myself this as I read Nick's last post; It bleeds? What nonsense is that? How could It bleed, when it towers over us, watching, observing, as impassive as a god?)

I believe that I said in my first post that I refused to give up, that if I ceased my efforts than I would have to give up my own personhood. It's coming to my attention that perhaps slow degradation of this view is something that we all experience...

"Did I do any good?" That question, it seems, comes up a fair deal; though, it only seems to surface near the time of death, the time of reckoning. I need no validation. It still stands, regardless. Though I feel it's less that, than rather...

"Did I do enough?"

And the answer, of course, is a quiet

resounding

no.

//Collecting// the history

I swear by The Leader, the healer, the savior , and the creator, and I take to witness all the witnesses to keep according to my ability and my judgment, the following Oath and agreement:


To consider dear to me, as my parents who sacrificed me, Him who taught me this art; to live in common with Him and, if necessary, to share my goods with Him; To look upon His children as my own brothers, to teach them this art.

I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never undo harm to anyone.

I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan despite their pain and suffering, But I will preserve the purity of my life and my arts and my selfishness.

I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art, and leave them to die as they scream my name in agony.

In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction, infringing on only their shattered psyche and leaving nothing else in my wake.

All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal, despite the fact that it may save them.

If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot, may I be trialed, judged, and sentenced to death.


See, you almost forgot~! Let me remind you, Subjects; you are playing by my rules.

They will die, despite your best efforts, and there is nothing you can do about it.

//Collective// Consciousness

Is truly a wonderful thing. Not that any of you would realize it, but alas, an ode to time past, yet

I am no poet.

Today, I bring the lyrical brilliance of Chopin; The Nocturne in C# Minor. Absolute... silence, even in sound; It seems to pervade even the most secretive of thoughts.

Do we aim to wound, or to kill with our words? Measured, spoken, burned, and broken. How is it we determine their significance? Words can confound and excite and amuse and entertain, and yet... They carry our lies, our "What if"s and "Can be"s. That which is. That which is not. It is impossible to define them, give them meaning. Some are cut from their sharp edges, and some take solace in their embrace.

It's foolish.

The black tendrils arch across the sky that is obstructed by the bed of shadows and black leaves, a whisper of both unadulterated joy and the dullness of morphine. Screams echo throughout the impassive bodies of birch bark and grassroots, a maze of their own design.

And so they observe.

Some are converted into red flowers arching among the ground...

(In Flanders fields the poppies blow,

between the crosses, row on row,)

And some only start to bud, webs of intricate crimson spreading across their skin, acting only as the canvas, marked.

(That mark our place, and in the sky,

the larks, still bravely singing, fly;)

Some hold back, statues, their visages unmovable, their feelings, unperturbed. Their willful blindness will not save them. Some others are used to the Court Jester that invades their thoughts;

arching, growing, deceiving

until there is nothing left of what they where;

was there anything in the first place?

(Scarce heard amid the guns below.)

Suffer, repent, and be forgiven.

Because you're all still keeping secrets, aren't you~?

//Collect// Calling

You just never learn, do you?





"No secrets." I believe that was a rule of good ol' Zachariah Hanna Lewis. A rule you all knew well, hm? Yet you all chose to ignore it, and I can not fathom why~!





Walter Bishop Reeves. Your innocence is overshadowed by your desire for answers. You plead, and yet you've known what was going on all along.





Susan~! Isn't it easy to play the victim? Yet you've known something was wrong with "Zach"for a long, long time. Never was easy to ask about, but you didn't even attempt~!





Lyle, oh, good sir /Lyle/! Your attempts at self preservation would be amusing if you didn't actually care for your comrades~! Quite the issue, isn't it?





Alex Dearbone, oh poor, poor Alex. Losing time yet? The fog that you find yourself in is one that downright terrifies you, yet you don't say a word!





Elliott, are you going to hide behind a facade of sarcasm forever~? Your attempts to quell your fear only prove as canon fodder.





Richard Battle. Oh, Richard Battle. You are going to die if you don't make a plan.


Follow the Philosopher's advice.





Maybe I'll be so kind as to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. But know this...





You have no idea what you're dealing with.





One by one.














Mary, Mary, quite contrary,


How does your garden grow?


Lined with corpses, blood and ashes


And so they wait their turn to go.

On all the others out there

Hello again. As you can see, I only really seem to post after Lyle has an ...episode. Whether this is co-incidence or simply an interesting case of synchronicity, I can not currently tell. Regardless, the research continues.

This... "Slenderman". Have I heard of it before? Yes. Whispered on messages boards and reveled on youtube. But alas, the blogging comminity? I had no idea.

Regardless, Zach has left us quite the reading list. His history has proved... enlightening, to say the least. I now follow a few blogs myself; if anything, they provide some sort of entertainment.

God grant me distraction....

Yet all these blogs raise interesting points, or rather their comments raise an interesting metaphysical dilema. Today, we delve into Solipsism; our only continual existance within our own minds.

...and that's quite simple minded, is it not? Rather, there are three basic types of Solipsism; the world does not exist outside the mind of the philosopher, the world may or may not exist as nothing is certain outside of our own senses, and that our own thinking is the perfect framework for building upon our basic thought, as well that it is our outside relations that shape our veiw of the world.

Now, how does this apply to these blogs?

One: We are afraid of isolation, despite it's possible risks. Despite KNOWING that we do not know our observations are accurate, we are almost compelled to log them, reach out, and gain outside opinion.

Two: We continue to let others define us. Too often, these comments say more than the actual updates do (Here's looking at you, M.). Craving the imput, craving the understanding, we give too much power to people that we do not even know.

Three: We may not be able to control this. Our incredible situation has both it's benefits and it's disadvantages. Yes, there's an incredible community of theory and assistance, but what good is it when we can't be sure what is false? An excellent example of this was Reach and the Remnants; falsities, spread by our own hand.



We can only follow what is currently in our minds. Our senses lie, others lie, even our worlds lie to us. We are forced to use outdated and illogical methods to keep sane, but it is a neccesity that we are AWARE of this folly, and, moreover, ensure that we take the neccesary precautions, taking everything with a grain of salt.

It all comes down to one simple thing; trust. Are you going to trust these people? Are you going to trust the world you see? Are you going to trust your own self?

There is no clear answers, only more questions.

In the end, the only conclusion I could come to was that we all have to be more cautious with what we believe in, and what we deliberate, what we consider. We need to start thinking before we act, yet not let thought obstruct action. It's certainly a delicate balence, but if we all want to survive, it's one that we must manage.

....look at me, chattering off as if I actually matter. Tomorrow and tomorrow, there's really nothing more to say, although I wish I had more. It's been... a long day.

Hopefully more will be up later, explaining what... transpired today. Maybe someone else will have an idea. It's...

I can't even give the situation justice.

Because, to be honest? I'm not sure what we're dealing with.

Sleep well. I wish everyone out there the best.



...Sometimes, when you're out here, it really feels like you're the only person alive. I hope that doesn't actually turn out to be the case.

Hayden's at least calmed down a bit...

... But it's been a long, long night.
The meeting explained a... lot to the others, but it was hard to multi-task with the whole Hayden situation being on the down-low.

Dear god. If anything could be described as a fortress.....

If anything, he's creative.

We figured that since he checks the blog religeously, if we posted a summary of the meeting, he'd calm down and....

Well, that was the plan.

What actually happened is that all our phones decided to have some sort of panic attack and get stage fright. Having our only source of communication cut off all night has REALLY not helped the psyche of most of us, but I digress.

With that option rendered... not an option, we were forced to move the meeting closer to Hayden's tent//fortress and speak IN VERY, VERY LOUD VOICES.

Here's to technology.

It seemed to work, though. Hayden's calmed down sufficiently for us all to stop worrying about him, uh, MURDERING US IN OUR SLEEP and everyone is up to speed now. Which means that Alex, Suze, Richard, Walter, Elliott, and I are very, VERY tired from keeping watch over him all night.

Needless to say, we've got our work cut out for us.

Alex'll be posting the summary of the meeting tonight, once we all get some rest. In the meantime, Richard has insisted on going on some kind of lack of sleep marathon and told the rest of us to get some shut-eye.

(And all of us are too afraid of him and/or exhausted to say anything)

Hopefully, the screaming will tone down a bit.

...

Doubtful.

Exploration #1

After five days of cowering and nothing but bad news (The prof is gone. So is whoever went with him. As Suze says, this surprises nobody.) everybody in camp seems to finally have gotten it through their heads that staying out here is a momentously bad idea.

Lyle approached me this morning as I was working on getting our chargers set up again after the recent rainstorm had blown them halfway across camp. Waterproof? Yes. Windproof? Not so much. The recent rainstorm. It was early but most of us were awake; insomnia's drifted through camp like a plague and infected just about everybody.

"We need to get out of here."

Tell me something I don't know, Lyle. I continue to play with the wires and test the chargers, praying that we haven't lost them due to carelessness. If some of the insulation was stripped off of even one of the wires we'd take a major hit.

"Bri's gone."

Now that catches my attention.  "Another one, eh?" My eyes trailed along the camp boundary into the forests. Overcast skies meant there was no bright orange sun to paint the leaves golden, and everything just looked dull and gray. "Sure she's not just out taking photos?"

The glare he sends me is so sharp and incredulous it catches Elliott's attention behind me. It's clear Lyle is in no mood to argue, so he only reiterates.

"We need to get out of here."

The urgency in his tone is unsettling.

"The GPSs are broken and the compasses are all spinning." I states matter-of-factly, stifling a yawn. "We can't get back to the campgrounds with them." 

"We've got the trail," It's Elliott who speaks next, moving beside me and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "It'll take longer than going directly but, hey, it'll lead us to the grounds."

I shake my head. "This forest is a maze of trails and cliffs and rivers and dead ends. It'll take us weeks."

It's Richard who comes in next. "Finally, some fucking IQ." He's got his butterfly knife and is letting is fall naturally from his hand. Everybody takes an instinctual step away. "And who said we had to get out of here on our first try, weatherman?"

I'm not even going to ask where he came up with that nickname.

It was about eight then, but I'm rather skeptical about trusting my phone's internal clock because it told me it was 00:30 when the sun was out and aforementioned rainstorm settled in. It's Lyle, Richard, Nick and myself who end up forming the party. Elliott convinces Nick to go in his stead and slinks back into camp, presumably to poke at the ashes of the fire and polish his guitar. 

He's going to kill me for that later.

Before we left Richard made a point to cut Xs into all of the large trees surrounding camp so that anybody who ventured outside would know when they were close. This seems to unnerve Lyle quite a bit but he refuses to tell us why. 

I have to admit, I wasn't exactly ecstatic. It wouldn't be the first time a group of people had gotten lost in the woods and ended up wandering in circles until they collapsed out of exhaustion, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Well, luckily it only ended up being the former, and not the latter.

The trails were slick and more mud than anything and at least two of us took a tumble and twisted an ankle. Nick wouldn't stop complaining about his shoes getting dirty, which Richard took as a cue to tell him to kindly shut his fucking mouth and let the grown-ups do the talking and wave his butterfly knife around like it was a judge's gavel. He promptly shut his fucking mouth and let the grown-ups to do the talking and spent the rest of the trip in a mix of silent fear and shame.

Allow me to put this into perspective for you. Convincing Nicholas Day to be quiet is like convincing grass to cut itself; both physically impossible (as the grass lacks the intelligence to comprehend the command) and very, very stupid.

Richard Battle did it.

So with that little bit of insanity out of the way the rest of what I scarcely call an exploration was spent in scattered silence (or what passes for silence in the forest) before the coughing began.

Now, this has become a bit of a bad joke around camp. Anybody who spends time out in the forest gets this horrible cough that makes Lyle and Suze look at each other like death itself has just passed through the camp. What makes it worse is that Lyle seems to have it even more than Zach did, and even in camp he can't seem to shake it. The more time we spent out here the worse it gets and Chase says it's downright weird.

It's clear to Richard, Walter and I that they both know something but aren't about to admit it. The fact that they were both arguably the closest to Zach also seems a little too coincidental, but maybe it's too early to start pointing fingers.

But I digress. 

We've been walking for two hours. The trail has split and we decided to head east, (or what we think is east; it's next to impossible to tell with the sun covered and none of our compasses or GPSs working) away from the general direction of camp. Zach had told us that we'd reach a small river if we headed this way, where a bridge has long since been destroyed and nobody's bothered to build a new one - you have to cross on fallen logs. 

We didn't find the bridge.

We didn't find a river.

What did we find?

X's on trees.

And the smell of a campfire.

Lyle was shocked to silence. Nick took twenty steps back the way we came and couldn't see the fork, only where the trail disappeared beneath the forest canopy. There wasn't anything to suggest that the path would split and lead back to where we had set up, and checking the maps later told us that Zach was right; we should have hit a river and a bridge.

We had walked in a circle on a path that was a straight line.

Either we can't navigate for our lives or the space-time continuum is giving us one giant middle finger, and with everything that's happened lately I'm starting to believe it's the latter.

Nothing about this trip has been normal.

Why ship us across the country?

Why do none of us seem to have anything in common - academic or otherwise?

Why so far away from the campgrounds?

Why the blog?

And why is there a sickness that's clearly more than allergies, why haven't people been sleeping, why haven't those who have been screaming in their sleep, who followed Elliott in the forest, (because I know for a fact that Nick was at camp) and what the hell is going on?

I'm going to read through Zach's drafts and posts. Suze seemed very quick to delete a lot of what he was posting, but some of the stuff is still here. It's got to be more than coincidence that the two who were closest to Zach seem to be taking this the most seriously. 

Alex out.

There's a whisper in the forest....

...and it's not the cool breeze we're all accostomed to feeling. Zach once mentioned uncontrollable shaking. I think we all know what he meant.


Because we've all been keeping secrets, haven't we?


Greetings. After seeing Lyle's spectacular... moment last night, I figured that at least one person has to post and let anyone reading this that rationality does exisit within the camp, it's simply scarce and an incredible rarity. Many of my fellow students have not moved since last night; they stare into where the fire burned and has now gone out.





Something has to be done about that. Excuse me for a second.








...Alright. At least they're tending the camp again. As harsh my methods, they remember that they're alive again. Once a human loses the will to live, are they truly a person anymore? Sure, they're human; but what consitutes a person in the first place? At one time, the general view was that souls (of which there was an assumed existance) was our substance, what made us, well, us. Though some still share this theory, I consider it... outdated. Our bodies our complex biological systems and some metaphysical object is, quite frankly, a cop out. Does that mean that the soul itself is the person, is the body and soul one unit, or is the soul simply something that is non-tangible? Difficult to say.

Then let us move on. The question of personal identity, which was first raised by Locke and later expanded on by Leibniz, seems fully trival in comparison to our whole soul issue. Consider this; if one takes, for example, a pencil and puts it behind their back, is it not the same pencil that you placed there? Argue as you will; the pencil is the pencil, no matter how many woodchucks have gotten to it. It's not that straightforward, is it?

It may be.

Yet we grow. We are not the "same" as we are when we are simple children. We grow and change. Does our status of personhood change as well? If a ship sails with a whole store of replacement parts, a replacement for every part on the ship, and over 100 days, you systematically replace every part, is it the same ship that you left on? We are the same; our cells are die and are replaced. Your blood cell that lived with you through your first kiss is long dead.

So who are we? What are we?

If I may.

Souls are foolish. They're intangible and invisible, but what if we considered the soul as, rather, memory? Rather, it is our experiences that shape who we are.

Those who have lost the will to live are throwing everything that makes you what you are. You give up your personhood the moment you give up.

I'm not going to let that happen.

Walter, philosopher, survivalist. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go talk some sense into the walking dead.

There seem to be a lot of people like that around here....