a late night character study/drabble.
Sometimes, Dipper liked losing himself. Sometimes, Dipper hated it. Other times he could care less.
Most of the time it was a healthy mix. Anger, at himself, the summoners, the universe as a whole. Excitement, at the prospect of saving a life, of helping, of being himself. Grief and happiness, disgust and pleasure, euphoria and pride and surprise and horror and shame and pity and an overall knowingness that he simply could not shake.
Though, that was why he liked losing himself. There was no confusing mix. It was clear cut, understandable. There was no blend, simply anger or hunger or a simple burning pain. There was no choking spiderweb of nerves, digging into his skin, down his throat and around his hands and –
And there was always the urge to protect. Even when there was nothing physical to save, maybe he could protect himself. From what, Dipper was not sure.
He was protecting himself from himself, perhaps? From the omniscience telling him that the Mizar two reincarnations down would try and kill then reject him? That the Sirius would be hit by a car at age three, in the current reincarnation? That the next Bill would have his memories, and use them incorrectly? Maliciously?
Though, when Dipper lost control, these thoughts were gone. It was… A nice change.
Though it was difficult and dangerous and scary and could not be controlled, it was nice. A twisted kind, but nice.
His reincarnated family would disagree, he was harsh and bloodthirsty when he was lost. They did not understand. They barely knew him when they would meet, they did not know him afterwards. They were not wrong, nor right.
It’s been a while since Dipper has had a long lasting friendship.
One where he could cry, comfortably for once. Lose himself, not in anger, but fear. He hadn’t had that in a very long time.
Emotions built up when you lived as long as Dipper. Some you become accumulated to, like regret, while others you can not shake the feeling of, like the mourning after a loved one dies.
Often, Dipper would lay down, corporeal, and just think. Let himself try and understand his mess of a life, staring at the stars, tracing those he had named others after. These outings got mixed results.
Generally his situation got worse as his anxiety would come crashing down, not quite gone from his mortal life, making him a sobbing mess wherever he chose to be. Other times, he would come to terms with a situation and push it to the back of his mind. Neither was particularly healthy.
Dipper Pines was a scrambled bag. He was torn and frayed, the stitches ripped apart time and time again. Patches would stop the innards, but even those came off.
Even over time, he would accept what happened. Bit by bit, piece by piece, until all was complete. Finished.
Every story has an end, and this time the drawstrings were finally tied.
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