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Effie here. Hiya. Recovered notes from Parçiful are transcribed below. These are the earliest of journal entries that speak to her metaphysical confusion.

From VVönderland.

(Note: this is transcribed directly as it was found.)

She knew they were disappointed, angry perhaps, that she had not told them what they thought she knew. She was disappointed no one spoke directly to her. She was a strange bird. She shape shifted her appearance, she had odd eyes when lost in thought. She had been so sugary sweet for so long, people had come to expect it of her. Her family viewed it as unhappiness because she used to be so happy. Well, yeah, we all were once many things. She began remembering strange things. She began knowing things that were impossible for her to know. She carried memories of others that they could not remember. She overcame her disdain of silicon only to find the internet stranger than she remembered. But then again, maybe she had never used it.

We live in a pool of energy. Your consciousness is at once in your mind and all minds. Your attention is the key. You can live lives without memory if your consciousness was not there, not attuned.

She could not understand her own opinions on drug use, much less explicate a formal point of view. However, she started rattling off every synonym for sanctuary she could think of when she smoked, for a while. The idea that drug taking was a sacrifice for the sanctuary of others crossed her mind. A little self harm balancing the world of pain and sensation. Maybe that was backwards, maybe drug taking hurt other people.

Her senses might have been too highly attenuated. Too much fight or flight. She felt observed by Socratic circles. She felt like an A&R man who would get fired at any moment. She felt like she had been used again and again. She did not deny she was imperfect. She never claimed to be the perfect partner. She could turn codependent if she was not careful. She could retreat into her mind for weeks and leave her partner floundering alone.

She felt she had a special thing with words. Reading them. Sometimes, as she took notes, what she wrote read like someone else talking to her. But, what a crazy, unspeakable notion, the kind they call women crazy for asserting. She tried to speak of it to her father and sister, but it did not go well. She explained her thoughts on the magicians use of the mystics to N.

The mystics had been played, tooled with, used, and judged. Many people with mystic proclivities seemed unaware and frequently received diagnoses and medication that had little to do with an ailment. The magicians had a questionable stance regarding their right to use others. They knew this though and she had a strange intuition that she was new. Go figure. So, they were trying to level the playing field, but she could tell they were scared of her, of what she might say. Ludicrous. She would not be believed. No one would listen anyway.

She sent a single page email and was told that it was long. Made her right sad to hear. One page? If only she could figure out how to use effing memes to get the point across. What would these idiots do without their wifi?

She was over it. She had been ready to share and speak for ten years. Hopeful she could, in fact. But, now she was tired, alone. She did not care for what the world had become. She felt so old compared to her contemporaries. Their fun just was not hers. Once you read too much, there is no going back.