The Backrooms

Outside = Danger. Parents would tell stories of Danger causing Harm to those venturing Outside after a long Time. Screen Inside was no less Safer, however. It didn't know. Child will still blame It.

a wrong step, one among many others, but this time is different. serenity overcomes your senses, a new opportunity presents itself. you observe a range of detached houses, all with their perfect, well-kept gardens. gates; this community is safe, you think! - what would you give to never leave this surburbtopia! to turn the Dream into Reality!

here.

and so fuck off, you do. you venture away as to not perturb the poor Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, their Proper Tea forever undisturbed, safe from the Stranger that you Are.

and so when you walk
you know the neighbo
rs are always here to
watch and keep the ne
ighborhood safe from y
our kind, as indeed

you sense

pairs of eyes gawking at you

they ignore that they all were like you one day.

strange neighborhood, one where no one trusts each other, each to their own, everyone is a stranger. the neon green grass, almost entirely clear sky and the glowing sun doesn't make this place any less cold, no matter what lies and pretty stories the neighbors may tell to themselves. It's a plastic town, made resistant to outside perturbations, but slowly poisoning its Inhabitants on the inside, slowly but surely killing their Souls.

yet can you truly blame them for believing in that lie? did you not come here to claim your very own Proper Tea? with the Family, the Animal, the Child, the Garden and Time? Oh but what Time if there is a Job? Did Mr and Mrs. Robertson not tell you about Job? How Un Proper is it of It!

the routine installs itself quickly. You'll come to accept it at some point. But it doesn't undo the disorder in your mind, that ever incessant desire to throw it out all for Adventure and Desire and Wanderlust, all that garbled noise in deep contrast with the persistent quietness of the Neighborhood. Once you pierce through It, the simulacra reveals itself particularly disappointing.

some are nicer than others. some will tell you hi!!!!! but only when they'll identify you as one of them. they'll then welcome you, ask for your name, your Job, your Life Path, your Faith, your Hobbies and Garden Projects. some may even offer you help, give you Tea (but not Proper Tea), keep the Animal while you are gone from Somewhere, Someplace. but they too will become like Mr and Mrs. Robertson one day. or maybe not? maybe you can help the neighborhood become more lively? this grand quest is why you walk on this pavement to The Big Boss The Big Man!

despite walking for hours you never really quite approach The Big Boss The Big Man's retreat, for they only accept guests when they allow it. They only descend in Somewhere, Someplace every 50 years or so, visiting their happy Subjects and hearing about their latest news about the Child, the Animal, the Garden, the Proper Tea (Earl Grey, and no sugar please! And don't you even dare ask if they want milk.) The Subjects never question why The Big Boss The Big Man gets to have a larger Home than the others, for it is The Big Boss The Big Man that allows the Subjects to have a Home in the first place.

and so you embrace that truth in your mind, that without The Big Boss The Big Man you'll be nothing, for it appears to be only pathway to become like the others (but hopefully not like Mr and Mrs. Robertson) and own a Proper Tea of your own, as much as it makes you feel tiny and claustrophobic and weak and vulnerable and stripped of all sense of communal belonging.

The Big Boss The Big Man has a grand soul, one open for forgiveness. They accept that all have been born from Sin (some less than others) and that many have been led astray by perverse diversions (some more than others). and so for a certain amount of your value and a lifetime dedication to your Neighborhood and The Big Boss The Big Man, you too can enjoy your own piece of land, your piece of prefabricated wooden, drywall and asbestos-ridden shithole, your own artificial green grass (fed with the most abrasive anti-pesticide!) and your very own shattered marriage, maintained only by obligation rather than love! A life all surely worth the desire to pursue

but at the end of the day if you accept his Love, They will feed you. They will cherish you. They will count you as theirs, except Mr and Mrs. Robertson who see you as who you are truly. but that's fine, that's just how it is, you have to accept them, that's just how things are. it's not like you have any other choice, come to think about it. Someday, at Some point, the whole world will turn into a variation of Somewhere, Someplace. Entire ecosystems demolished, turned into the same mediocre carbon copy of the same mediocre lifestyle, asphalt asphyxiating the ground of what was once a lively forest. public transportation and walk-able streets replaced with absurdly large roads fit for absurdly large trucks (rest assured that in time, Somewhere, Someplace will be replaced with streets made to fit the largest of trucks to fit the largest of their driver's egos.). villages inhabited with old familiar faces replaced by suit-and-ties-wearing snobs holding stupefying monologues about their desire to return to a more relaxed lifestyle, to return to nature, to escape "urban chaos". they will, in time, turn into fellow Mr and Mrs. Roberston, gatekeeping their own piece of agonizing simulacra with their looks of disdain, distrust and hatred for the Stranger.

but you'll become like them, as you accepted The Big Boss The Big Man. what merit is there in questioning the order of things when there is comfort in submitting yourself to the mold?

and as you approach his retreat.
you can feel his warmth. his love. his acceptance.

it's suffocating. it's intoxicating.

and that's how you got there.