​dmaorg.info Transcriptions
twenty one pilots
988 06MOON 18 — cla_ncy-988-06MOON_18_-1.jpg

CLANCY_S JOURNAL

The perplexities of the Dema horizon didn't occur to me until my ninth year. It was then that I began to contemplate the existential, and decide what type of impression I wanted my life to make. Naturally, to fuel my hope, I looked out upon the distance of the land that had cultivated me, only this time with new awareness of the obstruction that my youthful ignorance had allowed me to overlook. Was it there the whole time? How had I not seen something so obvious? I am reminded of the moment daily, as the realization directly collides with a unique hope for my own future. As a child, I looked upon Dema with wonder, today, I am wrought with frustration, as I spend each day squinting for a glimpse of the top of the looming wall that has kept us here. It was upon my ninth year that I learned that Dema wasn’t my home. This village, after all of this time, was my trap.

Before I became realized, I had deep affection for Dema. There was a wonderful structure to the city that put my cares to rest. Streets and locations were dependable, and the responsibilities of the day seemed to be accomplished with minimal effort. Once a task was taught and understood, we delighted in our ability to complete our obligations timely, and felt secure in knowing tomorrow's duties would be accomplished with the same efficiency. We all worked to represent our bishop with honor, and knew that each inhabitant of our region had a like-minded dedication to consistency.

Keons embodied the spirit of this dedication. Of Dema's nine bishops, Keons was reserved as unwavering and forthright, possessing the ability to achieve focus that was rare for most in our region. We all admired his, and felt honored to be inhabitants of his region. While we had heard legend of the ruthlessness of other bishops, Keons possessed a stoic demeanor unlike anyone I had ever met, and we were all proud to serve.

— Clancy988 12MOON 01 — ba_dge.jpg009 12MOON 29 — unnamed-(1).jpg

d_e_ath__eat_E_rz011 07MOON 08 — se__elf.jpg013 01MOON 08 — _ti_su_p.png

sev_ering__tiez

gEt out. the compAss lies. they don’t control you. get out. the compaSs lies. They don't control you. get out. the compass lIeS. they don't control yoU.get out. the comPass lies. they don't control you.017 02MOON 12 — _.jpgMay 8, 2018: 017 07MOON 07 — 017_07MOON_07.jpg

To refer to Dema as m[y] home has never felt accurate. Dema, t[o] me, has simply been the place that I've existed, or, the 'slot' they've put me in. I’ve heard stories abo[u]t the ide[a] of "home," and its depiction has always seemed warm f[r]om the storyt[e]ller’s de[s]cription. [T]here was a romant[i]c ownership of the p[l]ace they inhabited that I admired, but cou[l]d never relate to. Thi[s] place, my p[l]ace, however, s[e]ems devoid of the romance and wond[e]r that the old stories tell. But somewhere between the iron order and fallible [p]recis[i]on of Dema, a hum of wo[n]der exists. It's this quiet wonder that my mind tends to [g]ets lost in. This hope of discovery alone has birthed a new version of myself; A better version, I hope, that will find a way to experience what’s beyond these colossal walls.

— ClancyMay 31, 2018: 017 07MOON 16 — 3lurr.gifJune 29, 2018: 017 07MOON 17 — 2018_514_3_8.jpg
__n_ot_myo_nly_fri_en dJuly 1, 2018: 018 07MOON 01 — 4cbae6dd3f58/i.gifJuly 1, 2018: 018 07MOON 01 — _e_sr__eve_r_.jpg

A lifeless light surrounds us each night. Never could I imagine that
something so luminous could feel so dark. It's this glow that reminds
us of the dreamless existence we've been sentenced to. But what I call
a sentence, others accept as normalcy. How did they so efficiently
eradicate the dreams within us? When the bishops instituted Vialism
as mandate, they effectively reversed the hope that many arrived with.
Am I the only one who realizes that we've been lied to? Am I the only
one not afraid of the notion that the nine have hijacked our trust,
and extinguished the hope that once motivated our existence? We used
to close our eyes and picture a better life, now this city is full of
dry eyes caught in a trance of obedience, devoid of any trace of an
identity. The only significant light I’ve seen has been in the eyes of
those smeared - such a curious sight, to see bright eyes strangled by
the darkness of bishop hands. As their penance fades, so dims their
memory of something more. My hope of something more is all I have in
this rigid tomb, and I will not let it die.

— ClancyJuly 5, 2018: 018 07MOON 05 — _he_a_vy_.jpg

They're asleep. The night took forever to arrive, and now we're almost ready. We've studied the watchers, and know that there's no chance that we can step through unnoticed. So, instead of trying to hide ourselves, we'll make sure that all of us are noticed. It's been one year since the last convocation, and tomorrow's Annual Assemblage of Glorified will be the biggest spectacle this concrete coffin of a city has seen all year. If we time it right, we'll divert the attention of the watchers and finally take the step through. We've had no contact, but we're hoping the other side will be able to find a way in. We're not sure of the breach location, but we are willing to risk being smeared in order to find it. We know that we must go lower, and wait for the torches. They've never seen anything quite like this, and by morning, everything will be different. I'm terrified and excited, all at the same time. They don't control us.

— ClancyJuly 5, 2018: 018 07MOON 05 — _o__ut_.gifJuly 6, 2018: 018 07MOON 06 — _they_ca_ntseeFCE300.gifJuly 7, 2018: 018 07MOON 08 — 2_1_2.gifJuly 7, 2018: 018 07MOON 08 — _note.gif

I've made it out.
I feel weightless. I know that place had always held me down, but for the first time, I can feel the unity that I had hoped for. It's been three nights now, and my breathing has changed - it's slower, and more full. It's like the air out here is actually worth taking in.

I can see it back in the distance, and I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't constantly on my mind. I wish I could turn that fear off, but maybe the further I go, the less that fear will affect me. I feel betrayed by what I assumed was home.
If I ever end up back there, I won't be able to look at it the same way.

They are asleep. They're so sure that they know the truth, and carry on throughout their day with the same meaningless tasks. They've forgotten to look up, and to look outward, to understand that this isn't about 'in there.'

This is about 'out here.'

This new world surrounds me. I used to think the walls back home were massive- these green cliffs engulf me, and place me right in the middle. Trench is quite precarious at times, and it's easy to grow weary. But it's real, and it's true, and I'd much rather endure reality than to mindlessly be obedient to a life that
someone else created for me. I've obsessed about this world for so long, that it feels more like home than anything I've experienced. Somehow, in this vast openness, I feel more protected than ever.

The landscape feels endless, and I've found myself walking for hours without any true evidence of getting further down. But I've seen plants and colors out here that I'm not sure I've witnessed before. There's a beauty in the strangest places,— and the curiosity of what's next continues to motivate me.

I wonder who else is out here. If what I assumed inside is true, there's got to be more like me. Sometimes I'll feel a presence, only to look up and see nothing.
It's just another thing that I'm afraid of that also excites me. It all just confirms all of the things that I hoped to be true for all of this time.

I am out here and I am very alive. I'm sometimes scared, but always discovering something new, and I will not stop. Cover me!

— ClancyJuly 18, 2018: 018 07MOON 18 — unalone.gif

I can't believe what I just saw. I'm still trying to understand. This whole time I thought I was all alone - a single soul in this vast unknown world. But a few days into this trek, I looked down to see a figure headed the same way I was. I've tucked myself in these caves and crevices, trying my best to keep hidden, but he was out in the open, making his exhausting journey right down the middle of Trench. I was curious enough to follow alongside the path with him. He seemed unaffected by the fear of the unknown - the fear that tends to cripple me. To him, the terrain seemed familiar, as if he had been out here before.

While lost in my curiosity, they appeared. I had heard about them back in Dema, but to my knowledge, the stories were merely myth. Ten, twenty, and then what seemed to be a hundred Banditos appeared upon the cliffs, all looking down at him. He only stopped for a moment to look back up at them, and then continued on his way. His energy changed, and I wasn't sure if he was frightened or encouraged by their ominous presence.

They warned him of what was about to come.
It was a blur. First seeing the figure, then the Banditos, only to now have my eyes opened to the oncoming Bishop upon a white horse drawing closer in the distance.
The figure halted, and waited. When the Bishop stopped, I was sure he looked up, directly at me, so I hid deeper back in a cave. The presence of the robed rider seemed to paralyze the man. He stood still as he was approached, powerless as the outstretched hands smeared his neck. I had never seen a Bishop possess a power like this. Keons had always seemed gentle and warm - this bishop, at least out here, seemed like something else.

So I ran, and I've been running for as long as my legs and lungs can handle. Maybe this note will be my proof that what I witnessed was not a dream. A million questions race through my brain. Am I not the only one traveling through Trench?

I'll travel a little farther, and maybe I'll get a moment of rest tonight. I may have made a mistake, leaving. This spot, between two places, is beginning to feel like an endless and hopeless abyss. At least Dema is a place that I know, and at times like this, I miss a lot about what I know. This will all be much tougher than I imagined. Nothing out here is familiar. I've witnessed the presence of others for the first time today, and I feel more alone than ever. Cover me.

— ClancyJan. 22, 2019: 019 01MOON 22 — 17-35.4527.jpg

019 01MOON 22

I can't face this page for long enough to write what I'm truly feeling. I am only wrought with more questions: Questions about what I assumed to be true, questions about what my own path is, and the question that has plagued my every night that I lie here, back in the city: Did I give up?

The force I saw between him and his bishop seemed tense to me, and frightening. But the memory of that exchange has had time to fester and replay in my mind long enough that I'm questioning if I even remembered it correctly. I assumed the bishop was forcefully retrieving his subject, but now I wonder if the bishop was actually trying to save him, but he refused.

I stayed out there for five days after I watched it happened. I haven't seen him since. Maybe he got away, and was still out in Trench with me. Maybe the bishop chased him down, and brought him home.

Home?

Did I just call this place 'home?'

After all of the endless beauty that I saw out there, I am now convincing myself that I'm actually better off within these confines?

I admit, It was more difficult than I expected. Nothing could have prepared me for how much the 'unknown' can consume me. Vast landscapes and endless possibilities, yet coupled with endless danger. I became anxious. I became tired. I became hungry. Every step I took seemed harder than the last, jumping from jagged rocky step to step, or pulling myself through thick forest – it all became debilitating, and I was sure that I couldn't go on.

Keons approached as the sun rose one morning. I wasn't scared. I was relieved. After all that he had taught me, his presence was the most comforting moment that I had in days, and I couldn't help but be happy to see him. In true Keon's fashion, he wrapped his arms around me, then put his hands under my face, looked me in the eyes, and then said "Clancy, my child, let's go home."

I've been here for a few weeks now, and while the routines of this world are comforting, and certainly easier than life out there, my mind keeps bouncing between the two places.

Which one is home? Are the bishops protecting me, and the torches upon the hilltop dangerous? Or is it the other way around? My dreams pull me from world to world, and I feel lost in between all of it.

There is still so much I do not understand.

— Clancy022 03MOON 16: v-o-lds-ø-y.jpg022 03MOON 17: is-ø-lat-ed.jpg

I haven't had the ability to write for what seems like a lifetime. This deprivation is what weighed on me the most. Not the lack of food, or the change of scenery - they wouldn't let me write anything down.

Well, at least not without them present …

I remember that day vividly. First, they let me out. Even though the hallway was still gray and drab, the new experience was a shock to my system - significantly different than usual captivity. I tried to match the rhythm of the nameless guard's footsteps as we echoed down the long corridor. I followed close behind, as if I had no choice. Cold concrete encapsulated us and seemed to cast a spill of synthetic calmness. Obedience.

We arrived at a blue door. It was an odd contrast to this concrete maze. As I went through the doorway, I found myself in another typical gray Dema room. The only difference was who was waiting for me.

Four of them. Three of them were unknown to me, but one was clearly Keons. I knew his voice

They proposed an idea. A television show - or whatever it was. I had no idea that I was known outside of my cell, but they informed me that I had garnered notoriety for my schemes and outbursts. They wanted to use my face for the benefit of the city. They handed me a pen - a familiar instrument. Yet, they must be present when I use it. They wanted to manage my imagination and vision. Although shackled, at least I could create again.

Thus began the sessions.

Everyday my cell door would open. I followed the guard down the familiar hall, through the blue door, to sit down at the desk and chair. My designated creative space - perfectly centered under their watchful eye. Sometimes three, sometimes eight - not once were all nine present. He was never there. I would have felt it if he was.

At the end of the session, Keons would take my pen, gather my writings, and send me back. This went on for months.

What were we creating? I wasn't sure. A variety show with songs and set pieces? Were the rulers of this stifled city actually attempting entertainment for its people? Everything I created had to be "for the benefit of the citizens of Dema" a phrase I heard often. I didn't question them - I was happy to be out of my cell - and putting words to paper.

On the final day, I wrote the last line, I was asked to name it? The question caught me off guard. This seemed like a decision they would make.

Show Day: They dressed me up and asked me to smile a poor attempt at hiding my sleep deprivation. It was all so colorful, as if compensating for the grayness of the city.

It was a blur. Before I knew it, it was over, and I was back in my cell. I can only remember fragments - only blurred hallucinations of color and chaos - like a dream. The confusion of it all hangs overhead. What was it all for?

… but it wasn't over

I guess it went well enough for them to request more of me. I was useful to Dema, and my creativity was exploited in new forms - They wanted me to be the entertainment at the Annual Assemblage of the Glorified - a performance at sea for the premiere citizens of Dema.

I knew those weren't the real bishops on that ship.

I'll quicken the entry - I need to keep up with the Torchbearer.

During the performance, we were attacked by something in the water. I don't know what possessed the creature to attack, but it was odd, and felt incredibly intentional. Many lost their lives in the attack, and I was thrashed through the bitter cold waves, yet somehow survived. Did this icy cold preserve me? Why was I spared? I am still so cold as I write.

This place feels foreign - nothing like Trench. From the frigid sea, the air here is somehow colder than the water that surrounds it. I have a strange feeling that this island will provide answers.

I must go.

— Clancy022 03MOON 18: w-eap-ø-n.jpg022 03MOON 18 — 1619250308151109140519-Ø-919.jpg

What is this thing? This device? This gift? Some sort of neurological connection or expansion. Psychokinetic weapon?

This is absurd.

Why was this given to me? Why am I the only one that can weild it? Was this the reason that I survived? My mind is racing as I wait here on the rocks - staring off into the darkness. Waiting for our torches to be mirrored - the signal he told me to wait for.

It feels oddly familiar. Not the spikes in my hand, but the power it harnesses, I've felt it before. Is this also the source of those rumors I heard in the dark corners of the city? Legends and stories that I assumed were myth, inspired by children's nightmares - tales of what the bishops would use the bodies for. Those "honorable" citizens who acheived The Glorious Gone - referred to as available vessels.

It all begins to make sense.

The episodes I would have: the blood red vision, my dreams of flying, the out of body account of the rider in the river, the decaying hosts of the television show, the robed figures that commanded the doomed ship...

Had we all been "seized" by the bishops using this same technique? Is this where their power comes from? Are they immortal, or just feeding off the next body, giving their hosts a brief second-life? I am in my original life, why am I available to this control?

This whole time I thought I was battling my inner self. Was I actually under assault for something else? someONE else?

This small eerie island has made me a weapon. We both believe that we can use it to change the momentum of this war. Now, we must return to the mainland where they should be there to recieve is. We will destroy and rebuild. Though it's been years since he last spoke with them, I hope they have not lost faith in The Torchbearers plan.

But how could any of this have been planned?

— Clancy
Write the lyrics for a misc song made in 2018, titled "​dmaorg.info Transcriptions", by artist "twenty one pilots".