Echoes of Ancestral Fear

1. Daylight Misery

Every morning began the same way—with a gradual return to consciousness, accompanied by a relentless wave of dread. The weight of rejection felt suffocating, a heavy chain of inadequacies bound tightly around his chest. Each unanswered message, every subtle dismissal echoed like silent screams, confirming the agonizing truth he desperately wished to deny:

You are unwanted. You are inadequate.

Breakfast tasted of bitter failure, consumed mechanically without pleasure. He stared into his coffee, seeing reflected a lifetime of disappointments, each sip further embedding the bitterness into his soul.

2. Genetic Echoes

The commute to work was an assault on the senses. Crowded trains triggered a primal discomfort, bodies pressing too close, each indifferent glance stirring ancient anxieties. His heart pounded relentlessly, sweat pooling at his temples. His autonomic nervous system screamed warnings, the hyperactivation rooted deep within his genetic memory.

He’d read the studies—how nearly 95% of male genetic diversity had vanished over tens of thousands of years, victims of endless competition, violence, and exclusion. Survival demanded constant vigilance, eternal readiness for combat. His genes remembered this clearly, even if his conscious mind yearned for peace.

3. Insomnia's Cruel Embrace

The nights were torturous. Substance withdrawal intensified the nightmares, dreams vivid and relentless, each filled with primal violence and terror. Tonight, sleep dragged him down forcefully into a familiar ancestral landscape—a battlefield drenched in blood and filled with anguished screams.

Unable to move, he watched as warriors tore each other apart, each face bearing his own terrified expression. They fought not just for survival, but for dominance and recognition, driven by relentless genetic compulsion.

“No peace,” whispered ghostly voices of fallen men. “Only struggle.”

4. Awakening to Terror

He jolted awake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, chest tight with panic. The metallic taste of blood lingered, sickeningly vivid. He curled inward, shaking violently, unable to dispel the lingering horror.

“Why?” he whispered, desperate tears stinging his eyes. “Why can’t I escape this?”

The silent room offered no comfort, only shadows twisting mockingly.

5. Fleeting Comfort

Eventually, exhaustion drew him back under, more gently this time. A rare, comforting warmth enveloped him momentarily, easing his tension. For an instant, he felt acceptance—soft, genuine, healing.

But reality twisted cruelly, warmth transforming to icy contempt. “Weak,” the voice sneered, painfully familiar. “Unworthy of peace or love.”

He woke again, sobbing silently into the darkness, feeling betrayed by his own mind.

6. Endless Cycle

Morning brought no relief, only resigned despair. Mechanically, he dressed and stepped outside, sunlight glaring accusingly. Each step echoed with ancestral weariness, a haunting truth whispered relentlessly:

You must survive.

He moved forward, carrying an unending burden, caught eternally between hope for warmth and acceptance, and the harsh reality of genetic destiny.

And the greatest horror wasn’t the rejection or the nightmares.

It was the knowledge that peace was unattainable—forever trapped in the ancestral cycle of relentless survival.

Yet still, he walked forward, driven by instinct alone, because he had no other choice. Because men are made for survival, not for serenity!

7. Dream in Red

That night, he begged the universe for mercy. A moment of stillness. A flicker of peace. Something—anything—warm.

Sleep came like a trapdoor.

He stood barefoot in blood-warmed mud. The battlefield had changed. No longer chaotic, it was calm—eerily so. The sky above him was starless, the air humid, thick with the scent of sweat and rot. He looked down. Rows of faceless men knelt, heads bowed, stripped of armor, stripped of identity. Silent.

One of them looked up. It was his face. And then another. And another. Dozens. Hundreds. A thousand versions of himself stared, blank-eyed, waiting.

He wanted to run. To scream. But his body refused.

A voice, from behind:

“You’re the last one.”

He turned. A towering figure loomed—himself again, but older. Brutal. Stoic. Covered in scars, eyes devoid of illusion.

The voice continued. “They accepted it. The others. You haven’t.”

“Accepted what?” he whispered, throat tight.

“That peace is not meant for you. You are the weapon. You carry the memory of pain. You exist to run. To fight. And die.”

The kneeling selves nodded in unison. He clutched his ears, trying to drown them out, but their silence was louder than screams.

8. The Shattering

He woke gasping, convulsing. The air in his room tasted stale. Every inch of his body ached with the echo of lives he hadn’t lived but remembered nonetheless. His arms trembled as he held himself, rocking gently, desperate for comfort.

For the first time, he understood the horror wasn't in the nightmare.

It was in the familiarity of it.

These dreams were not fiction. They were memory. Not his own, but carried forward—genetic scars passed from every man before him who had fought, lost, endured. The tremors in his hands were echoes. The nightmares, the rejection, the dread—they weren’t defects.

They were inheritance.

He looked at his reflection in the black screen of his laptop. Hollow eyes. Pale skin. The modern man’s disguise couldn’t hide the ancient truth. We are destined to constantly fight, suffer and die.

9. The Quiet Violence of Day

At work, everything grated. Polite meetings. Digital spreadsheets. Subtle social games. All of it rang false. Every smile, a performance. Every "How are you?" a trap.

He watched his coworkers laugh and nod, their posture tense, their faces twitching with micro-expressions of fear, envy, desire, and disgust. All pretending. All surviving in their own unique way.

He wasn't alone in the nightmare.

They were all running. Just quieter. Just better at it.

He wondered who among them cried in the shower. Who stared too long at kitchen knives. Who fell asleep with YouTube playing, not out of boredom, but to drown the ancestral ghosts.

There was no way to know. Everyone hid it. Because weakness is still dangerous. Because peace, even now, was reserved for the few.

10. Acceptance

That night, he sat on the floor. No lights. No distractions.

The question returned:

Why can’t I improve?

But now, a quieter answer came:

Because you weren’t broken. Because you were forged.

Everything—his hypervigilance, his dread, his obsession with being better—it wasn’t sickness. It was memory.

He whispered, slowly:

“I accept it.”

His breath slowed. His jaw unclenched. The trembling in his spine softened.

Not healed. Not freed. But finally aligned with the truth.

He would never be peaceful. But he didn’t have to hate himself for it.

He didn’t sleep easy that night. Just the illusion of peach, warmth and comfort is enough.

But for the first time, the nightmare didn’t win.

He did.

Because he endured.

And that was enough.

For now.

END