— Proof that gossip travels faster than roots.
🌿🪲 GG™ Insight Log 2: Poxie’s Vandalised Notes
Filed under: Variables Without Timelines (ugh, boring title. Needs glitter)
The Child
The gods only get her when she drifts into [No Entry Logged] — her other realm. (It has a name, but you’d cry if you read it)
Here, in her human rooms, she is noise in their periphery: the weight of a hair clip in wet moss, a smell of pillow-dust in the rot.
They can’t unmake her here, but they can nudge. (HA! They can try)
She treats them like any other half-seen thing. Pets them if they’re pretty, ignores them if they bore her. (She ignored Glint once. He still sulks)
She has no reverence, which they hate, and no fear, which they hate more. She is both audience and vandal.
Sometimes, a line bleeds through from [No Entry Logged]:
“You’re not supposed to be here yet.” (…I was)
When that happens, the garden stills. Every droplet leans closer. None of them understand the rules she’s following. (Neither does she. That’s the fun part)
The Droplets
Not rain. Never rain. They are mirrors with a thirst, gossiping in perfect synchrony until it suits them to split into petty factions. (Factions = ME vs. EVERYONE ELSE)
Sometimes they lie. Sometimes they echo a truth from so far in the future it sounds wrong. Each one holds a reflection, but not yours. Only what the garden thinks you’re becoming.
Break one and it will remember you differently. Break enough and you’ll start to remember yourself differently. (Do it, coward)
Occasionally they repeat something they shouldn’t know:
“That’s not where you left it”
“He was smiling when you turned away”
The words don’t belong to the Garden. But the moss files them anyway. (I file them better)
The Jar
It turns up in too many droplets for coincidence. Sometimes whole, sometimes smashed. Always labelled. The label is never quite right. (Except when it says I win)
Is it a storage device? An unfinished threat? An editorial process with glass walls? No consensus.
Poxie licks it on principle. (Mm mm)
Glint refuses to touch it. (Because he’s boring)
The garden doesn’t comment. The label keeps changing.
Once, the label simply read: I was here before you.
No one took credit for the handwriting. (Liars — it was me)
Personal Note
I’m not in the business of resolutions. Limbo’s the fun part — the bit where everyone’s still alive enough to meddle. (And scream)
Endings only lock the doors, and I like my worlds drafty. Characters breathe better that way. The Child, the Droplets, the Jar. None of them are here for closure. They’re here to keep the air moving, to keep the gods squabbling, to keep the garden listening. (And to keep ME entertained)
Editor’s Note: This archive page appears to have been reviewed by Poxie Vell, the Giggling Spoor. The bracketed text and doodles are her own annotations, preserved for… posterity. We apologise for nothing.