By The Way Check Out My Poetry Blog While Youre Here. I Spam Here A Lot

By the way check out my poetry blog while youre here. I spam here a lot

Good ol’ fashioned grave digger

Hello dear reader, my name is Toby. I’m a sucker for classic literature and poetry so in this blog I’ll be posting random writings reminiscent of that shit. I might spam post and then go dark…

I’m 18 years old, straight cis guy (ON TUMBLR?), and whatever else you fuckers describe yourselves with?

I like Kafka, Camus, Plato, all the basics. Creepypasta, horror, psychology.

TILL WE MEET AGAIN, ADIEU

HELLOOOOOO

tumblr is seeing this one first

“Reblog if your account is a safespace for ___”

NO. My account is a safespace for NO ONE. I hope whenever you see me post you are filled with FEAR. This is a DANGER SPACE.

THE MILITARY MAN .

Brian Thomas was something of a social butterfly, a mans man. He raised by his father, Robert Thomas, in Auburn, Alabama. In his early years Brian was a friendly, outgoing boy who took on a lot of Roberts ideals and values.

Robert was a veteran who served 10 long years in the military. He had a wide range of knowledge on topics such as weaponry, cryptography, and was a rather disciplined man. As an excitable young boy, Brian would sit by the elders side as stories of war, brotherhood and triumph encompassed his developing mind. The strict, yet good man his father was paved a clear road of friendliness, assertiveness, and firm handshakes for the boy. Cryptology was an interest that Brian picked up from Robert, learning morse code and phonetic alphabet by heart.

In high school, he would begin to develop a keen interest in psychology, interested in how the mind works and how to guide patients through hard times. Deep empathy for others came natural as he would stay true to his fathers teachings of respect, kindness, and maturity in all situations. Brian was an outgoing, charismatic boy with a witty sense of humour. He was the type to light up a room with a clever one-liner or a bright smile. The boy had a good head on his shoulders, and his good grades proved he had a remarkable grasp on the world and his place in it.

After graduation, Brian moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama where he began working towards a bachelors degree in psychology, and minoring in video production. It was at the University of Alabama where he met Tim Wright, and later an ambitious man named Alex Kralie. During the summer of ‘96, when Brian was 18 years old and in his first year of university, he and his friend Tim joined a cast for a student film called Marble Hornets, filmed and directed by Kralie himself.

Brian would spend 7 long, torturous years falling into the hands of a deep, unshakable sickness from that point on. It started out with a boy blinded with innocence, such a hopeful view on the world, a future to strive towards. His memorable grin would soon fade as he fell victim to a series of gruesome and violent incidents between the unfortunate cast; the main perpetrator being an entity far beyond the groups comprehension. It strung Brian and his peers up and forced their bloody hands like a parasitic puppeteer.

At the end of those seven torturous years, Brian was left alone with a horribly bruised spine from a fall, two dead friends, and blood on his hands. Life would never be the same, and now he was nothing more but a conduit for the strange entities motives, if it had any to begin with. As far as anyone, including his father, was concerned, Brian Thomas was dead. And while he still walked the earth as nothing but a shell of a man, he certainly felt that way.

His optimism and boyish enthusiasm faded through years of torment and harsh lessons from unreality, to be replaced with a much colder, vengeful side. Brian would dance with criminals, tango with killers. He would put on a face, the Hooded Man, or Hoodie, to protect his real identity and possibly to make the cruel persona a bit more real. He did what needed to be done, and a good, friendly person he was no longer.

Brian Thomas continued his life holding the values of his father close to his nearly unbeating heart. And while now he was a monster by any definition, he stayed true to his word, and his handshakes were always firm. This is the life the man would make for himself, carrying the weight of the sickness and the underground on his sore back. This was all that was left after the war, if he ever had gotten out of it.

My girlfriend just saw the posts about me (not) getting hit by a truck and shes clowning my ass so hard right now

Ticci-work, my beloved