Whatever you’re doing, just stop. Not because you’re doing it wrong, but because none of it matters for the next few moments. Whether you’re knitting, doomscrolling, arguing with a stranger on Reddit about Blade Runner 2049, or, I don’t know, curing cancer, none of it is relevant. Why? Because there’s a faint, creeping itch at the back of your eye. And it’s about to derail your entire existence.
You’re still reading this, aren’t you? Okay, fine. But when that itch goes nuclear, and it will, you’ll regret not listening. That itch is an event horizon. Once it sets in, everything you know about your body, your mind, and your relationship to reality will collapse.
Go somewhere quiet. Be alone. Not for yourself, but for everyone else. Because if someone sees what’s coming for you, it will either destroy their empathy or shatter their sanity. Maybe both. You can’t afford that right now. This moment belongs entirely to you and this thing that’s clawing its way out of your skull.
Speaking of which, let’s talk about the itch: at first, it’s annoying, like a gnat in your ear or a poorly sung Coldplay song. Then it burns. Then it grows, and the next thing you know, the entire nerve grid of your face is being consumed by a pain so intricate and specific, it feels intentional. It’s like your brain decided to express its trauma in the most creative way possible: by turning your head into an art installation titled Pain as Identity: A Case Study.
At first, you think, This is fine, this is manageable. But as the minutes stretch out, it evolves. This isn’t pain anymore. This is anti-pain. It’s a sensation that doesn’t just overwhelm your body—it negates your capacity to feel anything else. It radiates, growing stronger, deeper, faster. It’s no longer just in your eye. It’s in your neck, your spine, your fingertips. It’s pain that occupies real estate you didn’t even know you had.
And here’s the kicker (wait, no, I promised myself I wouldn’t use that phrase). Anyway, here’s the twist: this pain doesn’t just hurt—it transforms. It peels away your sense of identity, layer by layer, until you’re just a quivering sack of raw nerves. Time is meaningless. Space is meaningless. You are meaningless.
And yet, somehow, you endure. Not because you’re brave, but because you don’t have a choice. You sweat, you scream, you cry—sounds you didn’t know you were capable of making. Somewhere in the distance, you realize that screaming doesn’t help. It’s like trying to put out a house fire by yelling at it. But you scream anyway, because what else is there to do?
By the time it’s over, you’re not the same person. You’re wrecked, hollowed out, but also strangely invigorated. You step outside, shoulders squared, chin up, daring the world to throw something at you. You make eye contact with strangers, not out of arrogance, but because you’ve stared into something far worse than anyone else’s judgment.
What’s that? You’ve got something to say to me? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Here’s the thing about surviving a cluster: it destroys you, but it also recalibrates you. After enduring that level of unfiltered hell, what could possibly scare you? A bad date? A shitty job interview? A car that won’t start? Please. You’ve already been to the edge of existence and back, and you lived to tell the tale.
But here’s the punchline: it doesn’t make you stronger. Not really. It just makes you different. Less afraid. Less attached. Less… human, maybe. Clusters fuck you up, but they also teach you a lesson you can’t unlearn: the worst thing imaginable has already happened. And yet, you’re still here.
So yeah, I walk faster now. I look people in the eye. I dare the universe to hit me with its best shot. Because what’s the alternative? Going back to who I was before? Forget it.
The pain lingers, but so does the apathy. And maybe that’s the closest thing we have to freedom.