My whole body aches, and I am constantly stricken by bouts of weakness and fatigue. I cannot stand for long, as the world spins when I am upright.
Most concerningly, I seem to be experiencing hallucinations—strange visual distortions which addle both my balance and my perception of depth. Strangely enough, I no longer dream.
I do not know when this started. The symptoms descended upon me quickly, like a fog, and I have no recollection of a distinct cause. In fact, my recollection has been hazy in general—I am unable to recall what it feels to be without malaise.
The doctors attribute this state of being to a range of ailments—it differs with every visit. Dehydration, psychosis; illnesses of the ears, eyes, and brain; even hormonal imbalances caused by states of anxiety and depression. Yet, the tests have been fruitless. Physically, my body is not inconsistent with the body of a perfectly healthy human being. I have been referred to psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists—in the end, it all blends together. At this point, I care little about the cause. The symptoms are all I experience, and brief respite from these afflictions is my only desire.
As my condition worsens, more unique symptoms have begun to surface. In the past, I have written in my journal to distract myself from the turbulent environment around me. Perhaps I was a writer of some sort. But now, when I put pen to paper, I have been unable to conjure neither the words nor images necessary to describe my past experience. I can only focus on my present state, of the world which appears before my sensations in the here and now. In the future, I might look back to these entries, and recall this affliction which had ailed me for so long. But I am doubtful. Thoughts of the future are becoming hazy also.
These visions, they have only grown in vividness and intensity. No longer are they simple distortions of shape and colour in ordinary objects—now, entirely new objects have emerged. Like balloon animals being inflated, thin figures billow outwards, creating uneven, grotesque forms. Almost always, they are bulbous, organic things, bulging and pulsating before my eyes.
As I grow more accustomed to these visions, their features become more distinguished. What once were just vague, opaque blobs have now become sharply defined substances, or perhaps even organisms of sorts. Perhaps, even flora. Although they vary greatly in shape, colour, and size, it is clear that there exists a certain resemblance between some more than others. It is possible they even belong to specific and distinct genera. But enough of this. To categorise hallucinations, like they were some undiscovered zoological species, is an act that even my addled mind can recognize as insanity.
They have begun moving now. Soundlessly, they creep across my sightline—some locomoting like caterpillars, while others slink on wireframe “feet”. These feet, thin feelers reminiscent of ant antennae, poke and probe the ground ahead, as if searching for stable ground. Dozens of these feelers extend from below their “bodies”; globular, ovoid masses, which appear as smooth as they are pliant.
Others sit upon stems, like detached eyes, floating in place.
On more than one occasion, I have seen small ones collide, merge, and become one entity.
Some of the larger ones, in fact, appear as a collection of small globules—orbs upon its body so numerous that it simulates fur. I can only wonder if they are a singular organism, or simply a congregation of them moving as one.
In these pages, I see that I have once referred to them as flora. I now see that this was an error. Yet neither are they fauna—they are a sort of combination: not quite animal, not quite plant.
They are everywhere. I have seen them creep across my page, I have seen them loom outside my window. They are not visions—I have reached out and touched them. The one I felt was bubble-gum coloured—it was warm and fleshy to the touch.
Perhaps they have always been there. Silent, numerous, invisible to the human eye. Perhaps my affliction is not illness, but insight. I have gained access to a world truer than our own. But this is no blessing. To watch and feel these things creep over my body, pulse on my bed, cast shadows over my building—it is something no man should see.
I awoke with one in my mouth. It crawled out so easily, as mundane as a salaryman leaving their home. It left a slick and pungent trail behind it. Tastes like gasoline.
How long had it resided within me? How many of these creatures had I unknowingly ingested in my lifetime? My throat burns as I retch. Amongst the remains of my last meal, things shift and slither.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
To my family, if I had one, please burn this diary if you were to ever find it. I would do it myself, but I fear to exit my drawing-room. In fact, I am no longer able to stand at all. Fixed to my writing chair, I can only scrawl upon this page, gaze out my window, and watch the world become unrecognisable before my eyes.
I see them.
Even when I close my eyes, I see them.
They live beneath my eyelids, beneath my skin.
I fear that they see me.