thinking in the dark — true things that feel like lies
The body, the past, the unnamed.
What horrorcore has in common with literary horror, and why neither of them is asking your permission.
The clinical gaze examines you. The surveillance gaze files you. The intimate gaze actually finds you. Most of us are still looking for the third.
A room designed to make you believe everything is fine while confirming nothing. The lighthouse print is lying. So is the plant.
The chart knows your diagnosis. The body keeps the original file. It has never once agreed to reclassify anything as resolved.
Fear has the courtesy to arrive with a reason. Dread moves in before the threat does, redecorates, and charges rent on a future that hasn't happened yet.
The form arrives before the procedure does. It has already decided what you understand.
To be examined is not the same as being known. But it's close enough to feel like a violation.
The body is always political. The monster is always a mirror.
The demand that characters be palatable is a demand that writers be cowards.
Prose style is not neutral. Every choice is an argument.
A meditation on why certain stories cling, and what they might want.
What the body knows that the mind refuses to acknowledge.
What it feels like to live slightly to the left of your own life.
A case for art that makes you uncomfortable. Including your own.
I know. I used it like one for years. Then I had something real to compare it to.
There is comfort in the monster. You know exactly what it wants.
Explore More
There's more in the dark.
When a new essay or narrative drops — grief, dread, the body, the past — it arrives in your inbox first.
No noise. Unsubscribe any time.