Emergency Message from Jeffrey
I'm sorry. I know this is the second email in one night. I tried to stop him.
Still in the forest, I see.
You’re very loud when you're hurting, by the way. Not a complaint—just an observation. That's how I found you. All of you. Yes, all—you are NOT alone. To an uncanny degree, actually. There is a statistically offensive volume of traumatized humans subscribed to the Narrator’s publication.
Regardless—you’ve stumbled. You assume this is regression.
This is incorrect.
You are not back at the beginning. You are here and there is still there.
Healing is not aesthetically pleasing. That was a rumor started by the self-help industry and perpetuated by emotionally constipated mortals with matching mugs and mantras.
Sometimes healing smells like burnt toast. Sometimes it produces inexplicable bodily fluids (yours, presumably—unless someone else has been in your flesh suit recently). Sometimes it’s just Tuesday.
But none of it can erase progress once progress has been made.
Progress still exists, regardless of where; even if you can’t see it.
You are, after all, standing somewhere that you weren’t. Perspective.
You often query, “why me?”—as though pain has justification.
It doesn’t.
There was no Council of Divine Indictments—that was disbanded. No celestial herald declaring “This one shall suffer now, for reasons.” It simply happened. Like mold. Or Mondays.
Your pain was not earned. It was not part of some grand universally balanced spreadsheet. It was just… wrong.
Still, here you are.
You chose to try again. You committed to a different day. Not a better one— different. Statistically distinct.
Do with it what you will.
Expectation is a trap. You owe no occasion your ascent. Sit. Seethe. Hibernate. Shed your skin and scream into a blanket.
But do not call whatever it is that you do, failure—the Void takes offense to that. You are its Champion, after all.
With respect, eldritch affection, and the creeping sensation of being watched,
—Jeffrey (Void Demon | Encourager | Witness to Your Becoming | Accidental Patron Saint of Healing)
 | A guest post by
|
I adore that you included “Healing is not aesthetically pleasing” and brought up the burned toast, too.
That resonated deeply 💛
Jeffrey,
You force me to abandon my self-imposed exile for a few minutes in order to reach through the morass of suffering. Toward? You? I'm not sure. But I did resonate with your words and felt the need to tell you (I am barely human, forgive me). I would add, not as justification but as hope (because hope is where rebellion begins, I'm told), that we each live in spirals of our own design. And while many believe these spirals to start at the top and wind more closely down like the tornadoes that plague our former Dust Bowl, I cannot. A spiral, Fibonacci or otherwise, wants to open, become larger, encompass all. So wile we may find ourselves faced with similar obstructions, we progress and we can never be on the same line or curve or angle (some spirals are a bit pointier than others) as we were. We do not recede. We echo.
godspeed... and a nod to the Void in respect.