Internal Dichotomies

Skeleton:

Myself? I am, merely, a lost soul... wandering the depths of a subconscious anxiety, a different dimension of fear... although, what, specifically, this fear could ever hope to overcome is dubious; but narratives do, in between, fill in, like existential cement. I wander aimlessly, for to know where, or why... is just some randomness in need of luck; but, really, what use? As long as one is sane higher up, in the recesses of the mind... not that, with the utter chaos of existence, even that is at all guaranteed... but, you do not mind that, do you? Nonsense is what you know life is made of, and time... well, it certainly could be better spent, but even that is a subjective affair. Of course, if one thinks too hard on that... all the implications, ramifications... why, panic would be a most rational response, but no, ennui is far more powerful... and sloth? A wonderful living creature... and life, abstractly, certainly does not, usually, have 'wonder' as some inherent quality; and, that is why hidden I remain, lest all philosophical one desires to be... usually, but surely not always.

Golem:

I... am what you keep buried deep within your mind. You never, quite, desire to let me out, acknowledge, or, possibly, consciously address me... I reside here, anyway. At times I am, indeed, encountered in the most random of places... for that is all life is about, and you become ever so peeved at that. Mainly because I exist within many realms, and you barely, at all... I am, though, in a twist of ironic fate, created by you... not deliberately, for you to be ever so annoyed, every so often... which is, of course, the least of your problems. No, you created me in an effort to resolve yet some other issues... but, as with many things in life, anything that involves matters external to oneself... can never, quite, remain within such a narrow space in existence, obviously; chaos, then, takes care of the rest, in time. Is that not what you have always desired? Not this, specifically... but chaos fascinates you, and, if so, why would you not relish its harvest? Yet, here I am, underneath the shadows of the past... indicative of an empty future. Is living existence not perfectly hopeless? Utterly, wholly...

Skeleton 2:

Oneself... is not, at times, what one thinks it is, for what is a quality that is but dynamic? That is, then, why underneath my lair is... for one never meets themselves, and yet, occasionally, it can happen, but only if the will lets go... it is such an illusion, anyway, to think that one has such a thing... merely because one is conscious. It is illusory, for to be otherwise is to invite fear, permanently... where below is on the surface, and who would want that... consciously? For a while, perhaps, just to taste reality... forever, though? Why everyone is so detached, for in otherwise there lies insanity... is it, though, not ironic that such is the state of existence? That entropy is but the natural flow of time, and destruction inevitable... of course, one could always rest, meanwhile, on the surface of life, if indeed one ever could... it is, though, just a reprieve... and, similarly, an illusion. The real reason the self is ever-changing... fear, resulting in a constant attempt to escape... which is, obviously, futile. There, now, do you not feel enlightened with desperation?

Hell Beast:

You... why do you come here, if you insist on multiple levels within consciousness? Oh, you claim you never specifically willed it so, do you? It is reality, though, and therefore choice must have played some part in it... even if at a cellular level. You do not think that is possible at that point? Mistaken you would be, then... for, even in the slightest of differences in environments there are ramifications, and while one might not know the cause of something... it all has such roots, even if, ultimately, it seems chaos. You might think I exist here, for that is what you consciously choose to do, but does reality conform with your perceptions? Do your fears reflect actualities? There are always mismatches to varying degrees, and while I might seem nigh monstrous to your sensibilities, it is only because you see this reality so... senses, then, do not so much paint the outside world, but one's subjective perceptions, the result of chemical variables, and sheer randomness. A scarecrow does what, uncannily jolt the senses into a realistic lie? Who believes, strives?

Scarecrow:

Come from, where... you do? Is nice, not... day? I? No such thing... all after, my type created, are... by others. So, I is... whoever? A combination, merely... a medley... juxtaposition, itself as life is... 'I' does not imply existence, though... stones exist, but say they 'I'? Not sure am I, of own existence... supposes, one does... if, indeed, communication one can... surely, then, exist do they? Still, it... is how, guaranteed? Entirely sure... not; say, live here, do you? Place, interesting is... sure, are you, exists it does...? For one was destined to... not. Think, presumably... wonder, you, why? Outer space, creates from... manipulation of destiny, history throughout... why, someone, know I... knows, who... a creature, dead, thought who... alive. Probably due to... senses diminish, sand... because, of... very tiring. To think, believe to... one, to be, alive... sad, quite, but have not, many, it encountered... say, why not... interlocute, creatures... with? From around here, not... but, around here, now... myself, though, sand... vanishes me, another dimension, from...

Alien:

I assume, you wonder... living in such an idyll, but with such an obvious subconsciousness full of all that is dreary, you must wonder; could you truly be living so, shall we say, wonderfully? Could you not, perhaps, be merely imagining it, for reality is inaccessible to those with just fantasy? Could it not be solely your mind's underground that is (barely) sealed away, and roiling with all sorts of fiction, but also life's upper reality, or 'wonder'... is certainly not (regularly) realistically accurate. Is this, then? For, one thinks, delusion should set in, hallucination nestle like the snake it metaphorically is, if indeed actual reality was unbearable... it is, after all, the very function. The specific reality I, an otherworldly creature, confer... whisper hints of what could be, but only you, then, can actually make an effort to open your eyes, and... see. Still, who could blame you, desiring an ideal world? When it is, perfectly, the opposite... it is, thus, absolutely understandable, but would one also desire to not witness reality, for a glimpse of a second?