Hello. This is my first post. Since this blog has no readers, this is mostly for myself. A little mythmaking is appropriate when starting something new. I’ve had this blog for over four months now, and lots of writing and editing have taken me not much closer to publish any of the ideas I’ve had. But, over the course of the last few months, thanks to the curious concoction of existentially boring work and poisonous literature, I have found what I needed.

This blog is about horror. Firstly, because as a sensitive person these topics fascinate me. Secondly, because we live in terrifying times, but remarkably few people have the heart to notice. I hope to reawaken horror for all logical and dispassionate folk that feel like no jump-scare or psychological thriller out there gives them what they seek. Although still ticklish in a fanciful way, this horror is too easy to rationalize, tune out, and move on. In short, it’s not real horror.

Real horror is existential. It threatens a fundamental facet of identity. It posits a catastrophic discontinuity. Death is the most basic horror, an end of the pulsing wetware that draws consciousness out of the fatty folds of the brain, an extinction of subjectivity. Yet much greater horrors exist, anyone that believes otherwise believes braindeath to be a long nap. To some even sleep belongs to horror.

In H. P. Lovecraft’s The Mountains of Madness, professor Danford goes mad from revelations that, to his learned mind, shine light on impossible horrors that annihilate any possibility of normal life. In The Shadow Over Innsmouth, the narrator describes the transformation of his cousin into an acolyte of the ancient Deep Ones, chthonic horrors that confirm a universe crawling, ruled by malevolent powers.

It is knowledge that brings about true horror, and perhaps even true knowledge is pursued by seeking horrors, answering forbidden questions.

Real horror makes us want to forget, or failing that, take to drilling our skull. Anything less is entertainment.