GF: Untitled

Having an invasive force enter your mind is a funny thing.

You see, 'cause it doesn't really leave. 

Dipper could still feel the residue of Bill's...whatever it was, in his mind. 

Sometimes he looked at Grunkle Stan and wondered if he could still feel it too. 

And it scared him, just a little bit. 

Sometimes he wondered just how much Bill had seen. 

Did he know his history, his likes, his dislikes, his deepest secrets?

Did he know how Dipper looked at Wendy?

Did he know his purest feelings?

Yes, it is a scary thing. 

A loss of control, a feeling of utter helplessness. 

Not really something Dipper was used to.

After all, he was just a kid. 

A child with a relatively boring life. 

But that day, he realized that he had crossed forces far more powerful than himself. 

An adventure, a chance to really make a difference. 

And that idea made Dipper's heart beat faster and faster, until he thought his most precious organ would leap from his body and run free. 

Sometimes he looked at Mabel, and he wondered. 

How well did she know him?

Did she see the things Bill Cipher had seen?

These thoughts scared Dipper, and to avoid them he devoted himself to the journal.

His eyes fixated on it, because if he looked up he would see that familiar shape again, and he didn't want to see it. 

He would never admit that he was scared of it, oh no. Never. He was not scared of Bill Cipher. 

But he was scared of the things that happened in his mind. 

Oh, how fragile the human brain is! How small-minded and empty!

Take, for example, Grunkle Stan and Great Uncle Ford. 

They refuse to talk to each other, and if they make eye contact they turn away quickly.

Pathetic, isn't it? 

Why can't we just get along, hm?

But no, you have to see things that aren't really there, feel things that have no basis in reality.

Why can't you just be logical?

Why can't you live in a plane of existence where everything makes sense?

Why is that so hard? 

Why do you feel so happy and so angry and so disappointed and so pleasurable when you look at Mabel? 

Why do these feelings form a tornado within you, tearing you apart from the inside out?

Sometimes, when she sees me crying in my sleep, she walks over and wipes the tears from my eyes. 

She doesn't wake me up, but her hand on my skin comforts me and makes the bad thoughts go away.

Why can't I be more like her? 

Why can't I make anyone happy? 

...

I don't know how to end this. 

I just kept writing and writing and the page doesn't stop.

Wish the journal was like that. Then Dipper could write for hours and hours and never, ever stop.

We would spill the contents of our brains on hard cold screens, on warm, soft pages.

They would be welcome there, and then people would read them. Then more people, and more and more and more.

Wouldn't that be nice?