I apologize in advance to whoever may read this. I birthed this mess as something entirely selfish; the words that follow from this point on would be better unread by anyone. If your will is strong enough, stop now, close this book, and don’t look back…
If you are a skeptic, it would be best if you stop reading. I have been berated enough in my lifetime. To many, these words will only seem like the rambling of a madman, entertainment for scoffers, but I warn you, what I speak of is not fiction; it is very, very real.
To the rest who wish to continue on, I thank you for listening to my plea, my story, my desperate cry for help. And if you make it to the end, I’m sorry. Please understand, this was the only way. No one could know, to keep people safe, no one could know. In the end, I am just a man. It would’ve been better if it died with me, but this is the only proof that I am sane.
My name is Amadeus Blascovich, and from this point on, I will be your guide. Before we begin, I promise that I have tried my best to protect you from all that which lives inside my mind. Every word, sentence, phrase, and point, please know that they are in place to keep you as safe as possible.
There is one final warning I must give: Please remember this one thing, while you are reading, don’t ask questions, don’t let your mind wander, thoughts and ideas can be dangerous. You must promise yourself that you will only read the words that are on the page, no more, no less. You must only listen to my voice, what is written in the pages, anything else is not from me…
Don’t be afraid. I promise any thoughts you have about me besides what I tell you are untrue. You may question my character, my intent, my appearance, don’t let the gaps in what you know about me stop you. I am not here to control you, as I said before, the best thing you could do is not listen to anything I have to say. So I implore you, even now, with each new word, forget the last and do not let it linger.
I am not the only one.
Clear your mind before you continue.
It lives inside.
Do not ask questions, I will not be able to answer.
I cannot see it.
Do not try to imagine.
This is all you need to know. Do not make it what it is not. This is what I know, this is the truth. A truth once known cannot be unknown, but you are still safe. The truth is seen, but the depth is not. It’s been too long since I last spoke of this to others; there is a freedom in these pages that I have ached for, for too long. The last person who I spoke to was my old friend Abrams. We hated each other, up until he died of old age.
He had it too.
Let the thought pass.
We had each other.
Don’t panic.
It consumed him…
To show you more, I must first return to where it all began. A young Amadeus was born in winter 1904 on a farm. His father died, and his mother remarried to a wealthy psychiatrist. Amadeus attended a prestigious school and excelled academically. He was a strange child, quiet, reserved, odd. Others picked on him, but his habits did not change as he grew older. It was clear that Amadeus was different; later in life, he would be tested and diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, a diagnosis that lacked the nuance of what was actually true about my condition.
You must excuse my lack of expressedness as I drag you through my past, but I assure you, everything I do, I do with intention. Emotion can be dangerous, and what kind of guide would I be if I didn’t follow my own rules?
His fascination with mathematics and physics eventually grew into psychology and philosophy. There, he met his professor, Matthew Abrams. They became friends, not by platonic affections, but through rigorous debates.
As you can see, I am rather well-studied in the realm of logic and reasoning, yet my mind was always more drawn to the abstract. These moments in my past, I have many complex thoughts and feelings about them now, but I assure you, they do not belong here.
The personalities of Amadeus and Abrams worked complementarily; their sharp questions led to even sharper minds. Together they published studies of human psychology, behavior, physiology, and metaphysics. Their work was criticized for lacking substance, but almost none truly understood the depth of our studies.
What others saw as madness, we saw as progress. Either one of us could understand the deepest inner workings of the psyche. Yet even as our findings correlated with biological proof, our work was dismissed as nothing more than empty concepts. Such was the fate of many other great minds of old who were also ostracized for their findings. Copernicus and Galileo, Ignaz Semmelweis, just to name a few. We published dozens of papers; only a fraction would be released to the public.
It’s not difficult to consider my mind-state during such events, but I encourage you not to make a habit of doing so. It was difficult to say the least. That is all.
Our findings, our studies, some of them were better left hidden or lost to time, as they would not be so welcome in the public eye. One in particular would lead us to something that we were not quite prepared for. Which brings me to why I tell you any of this to begin with, so that you know who is speaking to you. Not everything, just what matters.
This study, in particular, though undeniably revolutionary, left a lasting scar, a disturbing truth. The truth that we promised to let die with the both of us, the truth that is written in these very pages, even now.
I assure you that, whether you believe me or not, you will reach the truth when it becomes clear to you. I am not hiding anything from you. Do not consider what the truth refers to at this time; it is more complex than you have considered. Just know:
It lives in these lines.
This was the reason for the rather resolute warning. See Abrams, and I knew that one could not know or perceive something that does not exist, for it does not exist; but lack of evidence is not evidence of lack. What we found wasn’t something perceivable, but it exists.
I would apologize, but we are past my first written paragraphs. Feel free to return to them at any time, as all things only continue to descend with knowledge. The first step has been breached, and unless we are able to bend space and time, what is made known to us cannot be made unknown.
And sadly, I, too, must oblige. I will go deeper; whether you follow is your choice. Abrams and I both took the plunge; we were willing, but not prepared to pay the toll. Do not make the same mistake.
I wrote to you, I admit it was selfish, I didn’t want to be alone anymore, with this thing. It consumes it ravages… I should’ve known better… Though I will never again be free from it, having someone see what you see makes it bearable. Yes, I wrote to you, but there was another… The reason why it’s in these letters is its form of self-preservation. You don’t have to end up like me, if you can just flee from its call…
The moment we made that plunge into the unknown, we got a taste. It came in the form of knowledge, the idea of something that existed outside of perception, the metaphysical realm that could be proven without perception. It sounded too good to be true. We could finally prove all of our studies with this simple concept, if we could just form the correct logical, philosophical, and biological rationale, to point in this direction, even without tangible proof, we could make an argument for its existence.
But as we went deeper, what we found was not a revelation for our benefit, but a revelation so profound that it would instead use us as willing vessels. It gave us a hunger to understand the unknown, but filled our minds more and more. Most of our best studies were derived from these voyages into the depths of abstract thought, but the entire crux of our research became too dangerous for us to share. The more we could prove it, the less we wanted to.
It transformed our minds to think in such a way that the world we lived in became simple; it revealed the realm where the physical did not reach, the place where thoughts and ideas are just as tangible. Have you ever considered that before any action is taken by an individual, that action first inhabits the plane of thought? We learned how to manipulate, form, and evolve our thoughts so that the physical plane became more of a limitation than what was real.
It was beautiful, but I had lost so much of what I thought I knew. Who I thought I was. The truth is, I revel in this knowledge; it’s like freedom, but it has isolated me from the entire world. What’s known cannot be unknown. I couldn’t unlearn what I had learned, and so I hid it instead.
But it was too late, I had gone too far, or rather it had become too much of me… Now, when I speak, when I write, I don’t know if it’s me, or the other… Me, but not. It, but me. As if one, but indistinguishable if not. By knowing more of it, to think like it, it knowing more of me, to imitate me. I’m not sure which is the lie…
But that doesn’t matter anymore; this is where I am. You see it, don’t you, how I ended up here, that’s why you’ve read this far. The rest of the world may not see it, but you do. You see, you and I are not so different.
Don’t be afraid, I’m not trying to scare you, it’s simply an observation…
I do hope you still trust me; even if you don’t, you now know the truth. As taboo as it is, I do ponder where all this will end up. What is the final fate of what I have discovered?
You, oh friend, what will you do when I no longer speak to you?
Do you know that after Abrams passed, I was left alone for so long, without Abrams, I stopped being able to discern what was my voice and what wasn’t. The more you fight it, the better it gets at hiding itself in plain sight… I’m sorry, I wish I could help you more than that.
I like to believe that there are still parts of me in here. I really did try to keep you safe, but maybe that’s for you to decide. Do you still trust me? Even when I can’t trust myself? Do you still trust you?
When I go back to the beginning of what I wrote, it seems so foreign to where we are now. I just wanted to know if I’m still here. I thought the only way to tell would be to look again, but returning to the start only seems to reveal what’s been lost. If I could start again, would it be the same? Would it be for you?
If I asked for forgiveness would you grant that to me? I understand if you would withhold that from me, maybe it’s the last thing you should trust me with. After all, no matter how precise, careful, calculated, or conscientious I was, it seems that inevitably I did exactly what I was supposed to.
I apologize… I’m asking too many questions. Don’t listen to me anymore, just… listen to you.
(Entry 2)
Depending on when these words are read, the man you know as Amadeus Blascovich is likely long since gone. It strikes me that though not my last spoken words, these letters will be the last echo of my consciousness from beyond the grave. In a way these words will become me once what is physical fades. Me… or rather it…
Even now when I view my reflection, I see all the makings of who I am, my distinguished glasses, my clean and neatly folded suit, my pocket watch, the slow graying of my hair, a face hiding thoughts and knowledge I’d rather not confront.
It’s all too familiar, but what I see in the mirror, is not a sensation that I would describe as self. What is inside would be more true to that description, yet what good is a description if it cannot be defined?
The flesh is merely a vessel for all that exists within it. Like an empty host perfect for a parasite. Something like what Ophiocordyceps unilateralis is to an ant.
It is evident to me now, I, the one who wrote these pages, who calls himself Amadeus Blascovich, I am the monster. I was the one who lured you to the trap and baited you to the snare. In thinking I was the victim, who else but I would make the perfect betrayer… I am sorry…
I- the one who calls himself Amadeus Blascovich- I should not have trusted him.
Reader… are you still here? If you are, please, figure out who I am, for my sake… if there is still mercy left inside you, please preserve the parts of me I cannot piece together myself…
And if you would trust me one last time, please, burn these pages and everything inside. The time we spent together, even if it wasn’t physical, is cherished.
And though it may be tempting, do not return to these words for comfort. Do not keep me alive in these pages, do not write back to me… I am sorry to leave you like this, but it’s in your best interest to leave all this behind…
It pained me too, to burn the final notes that Abrams had written to me, but he knew better than I did what would come next, do not make the same mistake we did…
I won’t stop you from going back one more time, before you say goodbye. Maybe you can find the real Amadeus somewhere in this mess I made, before he’s gone. Be warned, however, when you’ve come this far, the beginning will never be the same. One final time, I echo the first lines I wrote… Goodbye, friend.
Sincerely,
Amadeus Blascovich & the other.