Dear █████,
Imagine this. People live under the earth in a rectangular room, covered only by green wallpaper. Stretching a long way towards the very back wall is an open gateway. The people have been in this dwelling since childhood, shackled by the legs and neck. Thus they stay in the same place so that there is only one thing for them to look at: whatever they encounter in front of their faces. But because they are shackled, they are unable to turn their heads around.
Some light, of course, is allowed for them, namely from a computer hooked up to the wall closest to the prisoners that casts its glow toward them, being above and at some distance. Between the fire and those who are shackled, there is an old wooden chair. Imagine that on this chair is a single person, who is shackled by nothing except his own sin.
So now imagine that jutting out from the ground in front of this chair, upon which the single person sits, there is a platform resembling a sort of keyboard. The person spends what seems like every waking moment of his life typing at this keyboard, typing entire words and phrases and sentences at a time, his workflow progressing inexorably towards a gigantic wall of text. As you would expect, every letter he types is visible on the large monitor presented above the prisoners.
Do you suppose, first of all, that these prisoners see anything of themselves and one another besides what little is afforded from the dim, flickering light of the monitor? Perhaps they could make out the features of one face, but even if they could, it would be out of the corner of their eye — their heads are kept motionless throughout life. What about the words written on the monitor? Would that not be the only “true” thing they could see? And if the prisoners could talk to each other, don’t you think they’d invent concepts and terminology to use for all the text they see? Would they not create their own language, and form their own rules, for every piece of the tapestry that is their writing on the wall? Of course, they would have to.
Now suppose that the person talked aloud, intermittently, as he was typing his wall of text. Whether his speech corresponded with the words he typed, or he was creating a monologue to satisfy only himself, the prisoners cannot say. But remember — the prisoners can only see this typing figure from behind. They would be unable to tell if the figure himself was speaking, or if his words were capable of speech themselves. If so, then the prisoners would in every way believe that the truth was nothing other than the words typed by this figure at his computer. They must surelybelieve that.
Consider, then, what being released from their bonds and cured of their ignorance would naturally be like. When one of them was freed and suddenly compelled to stand up, turn his head, walk, and go out through the open gateway, he’d be pained and dazzled and unable to see the things whose words he’d seen before. What do you think he’d say, if we told him that what he’d seen before was inconsequential, but that now — because he is a bit closer to the things that are and is turned towards things that are more — he sees more correctly? Or, to put it another way, if we pointed to each and every thing he saw in this new world, don’t you think he’d be at a loss and that he’d believe the words he read earlier were truer than the ones he was now being shown?
And if someone compelled the prisoner to look at the light itself, wouldn’t his eyes hurt, and wouldn’t he turn around and flee towards the things he’s able to see, believing that they’re really clearer than the ones he’s being shown? And if someone dragged him away from there by force, up the mountains at the beginnings of this earth, and didn’t let him go until the prisoner was dragged into the sunlight, wouldn’t he be pained and irritated at being treated this way? And when he came into the light, with the sun filling his eyes, wouldn’t he be unable to see a single one of the things now said to be true?
I suppose, then, that he’d need time to get adjusted before he could see things in the world beyond. At first, he’d see shadows most easily, then images of men and other things in water, then the things themselves. Of these, he’d be able to study the things in the sky and the sky itself more easily at night, looking at the light of the stars and the moon, than during the day, looking at the light of the sun. Finally, I suppose, he’d be able to see the sun — not images of it in water or another place, but the actual sun, in its own place, and he would study it. And at this point he would infer and conclude that the sun provides the natural progression of things, governs everything in the visible world, and is in some way the cause of all the things that he used to see.
Following from this, he would notice the similarities between the all-governing sun and the moon that steals her light for his own, having long-since studied its features under the soft moonlight. And at this point he would infer and conclude that the sun and moon acted in some sort of tandem, delineating every point of space and time that governed the world he now knew, and he would assign them a sort of binary structure, as the almighty forces that dictated existence as he now knew it.
But what about when the prisoner reminds himself of his first dwelling place, his fellow prisoners, and what passed for wisdom there? Don’t you think he’d count himself happy for the change and pity the others? And if there had been any honors or praises among them for who was the best at identifying the words as they were written and who could predict which way the wall of text would flow next, and who could thus best divine the future, do you think that our man would desire these rewards or envy those among the prisoners who were rewarded? Instead, wouldn’t he feel, with Vreeland, that he rejected all figures except for “me and myself, like the sun and the moon,” and go through any sufferings, rather than share the prisoner’s lives again?
Consider this too. If this man went down into the cave again and sat down in his same seat, wouldn’t his eyes — suddenly coming out of the sun like that — be filled with darkness? And before his eyes had recovered — and the adjustment would not be quick — while his vision was still dim, if he had to compete again with the perpetual prisoners in recognizing the words, wouldn’t he be the fool of the world? Wouldn’t it be said of him that he’d returned from his climb into infinity with his eyesight shattered and that it wouldn’t be worthwhile to even try to travel upward? And, as for anyone who tried to free the prisoners and lead them upwards, if they could somehow get their hands on him, wouldn’t they kill him?
Then the only choice for the freed prisoner would be to take his knowledge of the real world, holding it forever in higher regard than whatever he gleaned from the words on the wall, and to uphold its teachings with his life. He would take the moon, and he would take the sun, and together he would weave a new tapestry with his own opinions, combining everything the figure said with everything the prisoner had now learned. He would reassemble the machinery and the gears controlling the world and step through the curtains, watching as the sun and moon inexorably ticked throughout the past and into the present.
And meanwhile, in the future, he would tell the only story that exists.
Dear Matt,
I almost couldn’t bring myself to write this letter. I’ve actually thought about sending this letter a lot, but never really got around to it. I’d always just push it off. But... this’ll probably be the only letter I ever actually plan on sending. I’ve written a lot of them over the past year or so, but I always knew that no one would ever read those. This time, though… things could be different.
So, hi. It’s me, Adam Mason. I’m very aware that there’s been essentially radio silence from me for the past... well, since last December. There’s a lot of complicated reasons for it that I really don’t have the time to explain, but I’m just… Essentially, I wasn’t in a position where I could talk to you. Or a lot of people, really. Sometimes it... felt like no one noticed I was even gone. Crazy, right?
But, I’m writing this now, because... Well, because things have changed. This godmodder’s taken control of everything in Minecraft, and if I’m assuming correctly, that means you’ve been infected too. You, and… basically everyone else that we knew from school. We could… I mean, I dunno. We could meet up? Play together? Fight the Godmodder, somehow?
It could be just like old times.
I hope to see you soon, man. It’s been a long time.
Your friend,
Adam
12/1/13
Dear █████,
There’s another anomaly about the way Fiction works. I guess I never noticed it before because I... well, there are multiple reasons why. One being that for most of my time here barely anything noticed me, period, and that was that. Another being that I wasn’t exactly keen on revisiting all of my school friends. Sure, not attending school at all and shutting me out from what limited social life I had back home wasn’t exactly going to do me any favors, but I just... didn’t want to risk anything. There were too many what ifs? What if everyone I know got aged up like Jeff and I? What if, even if they didn’t, they don’t even know who I am? What if they don’t even exist at all?
So I sort of just... kept quiet, for a long time. Stopped going to school, ghosted everyone I knew, and... well, I’ve been living like a king. Like a king! You know how it is. Very hard to go hungry when there’s so much food to take. From my parents, and from. Elsewhere. I’m pretty sure sometimes I don’t need to eat, also? It’s weird. But that’s not the point. The point is… ever since I gained control over this Update Terminal, and took TT2000’s place... I know what happened to all my school friends.
They exist. But more importantly, they’re basically unchanged. It’s bizarre! I can’t even begin to comprehend it. Actually, that’s a lie, I totally can. I figured it out instantly with my limitless intellect. I don’t want to say it’s as though they have another set of alternate memories, but it... sort of is? It seems like my friends — my friends with Minecraft accounts, anyway — have been spared from the far-reaching reality-warping effects that Aperture Science’s entrance into this universe had. They view Jeff and I as their classmates that just abandoned school one day. They still remember me, and my amateur comics, and my lack of athleticism. The whole package.
So if I was to go confront them... If I really was to say hi to Matt, even after he ghosted me back once I sent him that letter… There’s an incredibly high chance they’d know me. Or at least, a version of me that’s closer to the real me. They still view us as “Adam and Jeff,” of course, and I’m sure there’s other changes besides that. But they survived this whole Fictional warp relatively unscathed. Which, of course, begs the very obvious question of “why?”
I have my theories. Some more self-centered than others. The prevailing theory is that this has to do with Minecraft itself. The universe is tied to its very foundations with the limitless energy of creation, and it’s affording its players all sorts of protections that they’d never normally have — even the ones that aren’t fighting the Godmodder in my game. I’d assume that it protected them from the massive shift that Aperture caused. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have a theory that... this was done personally, to spite me. Which sounds idiotic when I write it like that, but I can’t get my mind to un-think that thought once it’s been thunk.
M clearly brought me here for some unfathomable reasons. He plucked me from my own backyard and threw me into this metafictional lion’s den, and left me to fend for myself. And now, with my infinite knowledge, it’s very easy for me to tell that Aperture Science wasn’t always here – just like me, it was pulled from another universe (Universe HL) and put into this one (Universe B). Of course, Aperture was always Fictional, but you get the idea. Someone was responsible for this, and, since it happened at the exact same time that I got here, it must have been the same entity. So it was M. And if M did this, and restructured the universe in the process... then maybe He consciously chose to leave those with Minecraft accounts alone? Just so that my friends could be here, in the flesh, and I would have...
...I mean, in no uncertain terms... I would have the closest link to my real past that I’ve had in over a year, besides the limitless well of exhaustion that is my parents. It would be an actual, genuine chance to reconnect, and a chance for me to be completely consumed by anxiety and fear and hopelessness. Because now that I know that I can’t go home, and now that I know I’ll never be able to see them again... All I have are these replicas. These almost-perfect forms of my friends, that are just far enough from the real ones that it… hurts.
...If I were to ever run into him… or any of them… I really don’t know what I’d do. And that terrifies me.
Stay tuned,
TwinBuilder
1/10/14
Dear █████,
It’s been a year. One whole year. Three-hundred and sixty five days. I’ll always remember it like it was yesterday, though. You know how it is. I couldn’t forget any of what happened that day, even if I tried. Our last words to each other, me walking down those stairs, me holding those glasses in my hands… Well, now, it’s been a year. And I’m holding those same glasses, in those same hands. And I’m still here. Stuck.
If I could have come back, I would have. Please know that. If time is going by for you at the same rate that it’s going for me, which is still a question I have absolutely no answer for, even after all the sleepless nights I’ve had, forced to ponder it... I hope you know that I didn’t leave on purpose. And that if I ever had a chance, even the tiniest of possible chances, to find a way back home... I would have. I’d have done it long, long ago. I’d have traded anything. Every second that I spend here is a second that I could be spending with the people I know. With the people I care about.
But, then again... If I’m telling the truth... I’ve made connections here, too. I’m not running Destroy the Godmodder 2 just to pass the time, you know? It’s what I have to do. It’s what I was brought here to do. And the people that congregate around this game, around this series... I may not be exactly like them — I may not be able to live in the same space as them, not really — but I’m with them, in more ways than they know. I’m fighting right alongside of them, I’m fighting for them! I want to see a happy ending for them, and for everyone. Because... well, because they deserve it.
You have to be a special person to be able to write your own story. You have to be determined, you need conviction. You need to be able to look at the way your life is running, recognize what you dislike about it, and then reach out and rearrange things. It’s not as easy as it might sound. Am I making it sound easy? It may sound easy to you, and to everyone else back home. But in here… Fiction plays by different rules. Rules that I’ve come to understand, rules that are hardcoded into every story — but it plays by them. People can’t just… magically change of their own free will, here. If they do, it’s because someone else made them change, you know? Everything here is a story, from the top to the bottom, thought of by someone else, and so everything that ever gets done here is just a byproduct of an author pulling the Narrative to some sort of end.
So for these players to be able to accomplish so much in such a short amount of time... it’s nothing short of legendary, on a cosmic scale. They’re the creators of their own destiny. Anyone who has that ability, that gift — the power to bridge the worlds between the audience of a work and the work itself — has more power than they can ever know. When you write and rewrite the boundaries that separate your story from existence, is there even a story? Or is it just existence itself?
...Sorry. I tend to go on these introspective rants a lot more often now that I’m part-freaky knowledge spirit. I hope you don’t mind, though. This stuff has given me a lot to think about. Maybe it’ll give you a lot to think about, too. I don’t think I’m going to find a way out of here any time soon, and that’s… well, it’s much more crippling than I’m letting you in on, I’ll tell you that. But what else can I do? I have to keep going.
I’ll always have to keep going. There’s work to be done.
Stay tuned,
TwinBuilder
12/7/13
█████,
for the first time in months, i actually feel something... awful. i feel afraid. very afraid. the serpent, one of the players of my game... my idiotic awful terrible game that i never should have made is actually genuinely about to summon me to the battlefield. i could have ignored it, i could have vetoed it, i could have done any number of things to counteract it. i should have done any number of things to counteract it. but do you want to know something? i’m sure you can guess what that something is, but...
i didn’t stop them. i had all the power in the world. it would have been so easy. i just had to type a rebuttal, run my fingers over a set of keys, and then my word would become law. an immutable fact imposing itself across the entirety of fiction. but i didn’t. i couldn’t. i so badly wanted to. every instinct, every bone, my entire body was coming undone and turning into plasma, and i was screaming to change this.
every entity that enters the battlefield in the godmodding wars encounters the same fate. they live. they fight. they die. i’m... i’m going to die. i’m actually going to die here. here. in a meta-incestuous story that i engineered, over nine thousand trillion miles away from anyone that knows me. anyone that really knows me, anyway. i’m going to die, stuck in my own story, ripped from this fictional plane and stuck into another, nestedfictional plane.
tell me how this is fair. please. someone, anyone, look me in the eyes, my eyes buried by scarlet fire, and tell me how this is fair. what have i done to deserve this? i’ve been struggling to make ends meet here for MONTHS. it’s been OVER A YEAR. i’ve had to deal with existence giving me the silent treatment, with erasing my own future, with my brother going off the grid entirely, with a decades-old maze puppeteered by something that should not exist, and now, to cap everything off, the only thing i had to look forward to in this hellhole is what’s PUTTING ME IN THE GRAVE.
if this is happening... if this is really happening, and i just have to accept it... then that means this is what the narrative wants. i can push the narrative however i want, but there are still rules to things. hoops i have to jump through, roads i have to travel. the godmodding wars need to play out a certain way. i can’t just... instantly kill him. everything would go out of balance that way. there needs to be conflict, there needs to be stakes, there needs to be a compelling story. and if me dying is a piece of that story... if i have to...
...i’ve already lost everything that ever mattered to me, in one way or another. it’s all been snatched from my hands and caught somewhere in time. what more could i possibly lose?
— adam.
1/31/14
Dear █████,
I’d... like to apologize for my earlier letter. I know, I know. It’s not like that’s going to do me a whole lot of good, is it? Blah blah “it’s not like you can read anything I write” et cetera ad nauseam. I don’t even technically need to write these out, you know? It’s not even that I could type them on my Update Terminal 2001-Deluxe-Mark 5 or whatever. It’s that I could just... snap my fingers, and I’d have a thousand copies of this same letter. Instantaneously. But I have to do this, and I have to do it like this, because... it’s one of the only things I have left.
With that said, I want to apologize. Fatalism was dragging me down. It... does that sometimes. Turns out that when you’re carrying the weight of the world, and a bunch of worlds you had no knowledge of before, on your shoulders, sometimes it drags you down. It’s not like I’m not going to die or anything, don’t get me wrong, that’s still absolutely in the cards. It’s something I’m going to have to face on my own, and I don’t necessarily know if it’ll be permanent, but that changes... none of my feelings on it. Even if I survive, I’ll come back different. I just know.
It’s... weird. My foresight extends through all these possible branches and possibilities, but as soon as I actually enter the battlefield, as a tangible part of the game, it starts becoming way more spotty than usual. As though becoming a physical entity limits by ability to control the game. As though from there, it’s just going to go off the rails until any number of things happens — and if the Narrative is sanctioning me being summoned, then I can only assume it’s sanctioning whatever happens as a result. I can only hope so, anyway. The other possibility is far too dangerous to comprehend.
I’m saying all this to say that... this may be one of the last letters I write. I could continue the practice while I’m in GodCraft itself, and I don’t doubt that I will, but I have a very good feeling that the practice will become less... frequent, as it is now. I won’t be staying still, sitting by a computer all day. I’ll be actually fighting, I guess. And not even the way I was in the first Godmodding War, where I was basically an armchair warrior. From the looks of it, I’m... literally going to be in the game. As a combatant. Like... Like Spy Kids 3D.
The more overarching point is that, since my time here is limited, and I don’t know what’s going to await me in the future, this is my last chance to... I guess, to tie up any loose ends. And since the whole avenue of going home is essentially closed off, that leaves one massive, obvious loose end, flanked by wacky wavy inflatable arm tube men and flashing neon lights. You know what I’m going to say, I’m sure. There’s nothing else I could say right now that would make sense.
It’s Jeff, █████. I found him, for real this time. I didn’t have the time to check before, and I was... scared of what I’d find. The more I’ve been thinking about him over the past few months, the more complicated I feel about him. Like I’m just angered over his disappearance, or terrified of the myriad of possibilities, or I just stop dead in my tracks and feel like it would be a horrible idea to find him. But I can’t just let this die. I can’t let one of Fiction’s greatest anomalies — my brother — fall by the wayside.
I found him, and I know where he is. And I’m going to go looking for him. So... wish me luck, alright? This matters a lot to me. Maybe it’ll mean a lot for you, too.
Stay tuned,
TwinBuilder
2/3/14
Hello Andrew,
I want to play a game.
I’m aware that this may be one of the weirder fan messages you’ve received over the course of your tenure as the creator of Homestuck, for a number of reasons. First off, that you’ve been given this letter in an actual envelope with a green wax seal. Second off, that it spontaneously materialized, if my math was correct, about five feet in front of your current position. Third off, that it’s… well, that its content is this. Not someone asking you about some hidden lore detail, or wanting confirmation on their headcanon. It’s someone talking to you.
I’m here to ask you an important question, and then I won’t bother you again. You can tell your story, and I can tell mine. This question is one that’s been bouncing in my head for months, as you can probably tell by the elaborate way with which I planned out the deliverance of this letter. It’s a question very near and dear to my heart; it’s probably nearer and dearer to mine than anyone else that’s ever existed. And it’s a simple question, too — so simple, I’ll just lay it on you right now.
How do you justify creating Homestuck?
Simple enough, right? Maybe I should explain more, though. On the off chance that you don’t realize the magnitude of what you’ve done. Are you aware that there are three you-s? Are you aware that your existence is split up into a fractal, shifting across various subdivisions of reality, all working together for the same ultimate purpose, to achieve the same ultimate reward? There’s the you that actually exists. The one separate from this dimension, and all the others in this plane. The one that’s actually typing out Homestuck. Then there’s you — the you I’m addressing this letter to, and the you who’s, hopefully, received it. You’re in a fictional recreation of the real Earth, yet you still live much the same as your counterpart, in that you’re creating Homestuck, as a fictional webcomic, within this fictional universe.
But then there’s the third you. The you inside Homestuck itself. A piece of iconography that you’ve inserted tangentially into your own story, designed as an abstraction to convey the ever-expanding boundaries of your own narrative, and to call into question the objectivity of the narrator, the audience, and perhaps every facet of the story. You exist in the real world, in your own story, and in an intermediary plane between the two. And if you do realize what it is that you’ve done, you should clearly see the problem here. A problem inherent with every story, yes, but especially yours. And if you don’t...
Then imagine this. People live under the earth in a rectangular room, covered only by green wallpaper. Stretching a long way towards the very back wall is an open gateway. The people have been in this dwelling since childhood, shackled by the legs and neck. Thus they stay in the same place so that there is only one thing for them to look at: whatever they encounter in front of their faces. But because they are shackled, they are unable to turn their heads around.
It’s a strange story I started to tell, with strange prisoners, right? Even if you don’t know what you’ve done, you know the allegory I was preparing to tell. A narrative, simpler than yours, and simpler than even mine, but still a narrative — like all stories, a shadow of the only story to ever exist. Of a group that perceived the world one way, and was proved wrong, with their bodies, minds, and souls being opened to an even greater, fundamental truth. All fictional characters are stuck in the cave. Their existence is relegated only to words on a screen, to graphite on a page, to paint on a canvas. They are sealed underground, yes, locked away from the real world and shackled to what they assume to be all that exists.
But they exist all the same. They are being chained to their own narrative. And you have chained yourself within your own story. How do you justify that? That’s my question. What could possibly possess you to imprison your own soul inside a narrative? Yes, words can last forever, and stories can create a legacy that stands the tests of time, long beyond the author’s death, but the death of the author is inherent to all stories. The author’s interpretation of events is just one of many. But you... You’ve forced yourself into your own story, and you’ve killed yourself within it. You’ve sacrificed yourself to the very forces that have made the lives of your characters an endless nightmare.
How could you possibly justify that?
And if you think I’m crazy — if none of these words have stopped you in your tracks, or made you think about anything — then take this away from my letter, at the very least. While your story is on hiatus, you have a choice. You can move forward with whatever you had planned, which will probably run against whatever your shrinking legion of fans wants. Or you can stop here, leave your characters alone, and run. Run, so that when they start coming for you, you can get a head start.
I told you I wanted to play a game. So there it is. Stay tuned.
TwinBuilder
1/23/14
it happens in two days. i know it does. the day after tomorrow. that’s the day that i’m summoned onto the battlefield. tomorrow’s the day that marks the start of the rest of my life. oh god. oh my god, i’m so scared. i never asked for this. i never asked for this responsibility, for what came with this position. i wanted to tell a story, i wanted to make a game, i wanted to mean something, but i... i didn’t ask for my life to be on the line. i didn’t ask to put other peoples’ lives on the line. I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS. DO YOU HEAR ME, GOD? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? ARE YOU GOING TO IGNORE ME, LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO???
i have... i have no clue how i’m supposed to act. how i’m supposed to react. there’s no possible way i can escape. there’s no way i can claw out of this story now, i know that. plot wouldn’t let me leave, and even if it did, i don’t have the power. even when i’m controlling this entire war from the inside out, i STILL don’t have the power.
but that’s... that’s not the problem here. the problem is that... i can feel myself, uh... slipping? kind of? i can feel my head cracking under the stress. this whole first guardian deal is really helping matters, don’t get me wrong, but it’s... i don’t know, i’m starting to see issues with the whole facade. things about myself that i kept hidden. a… a lot of things about myself that i kept hidden. it’s... it’s terrifying.
i’m just going through my head while i write this, opening all the doors, seeing all the memories, and... oh my god... oh god... there’s... there’s so much... oh... oh GOD... all i can see is... a column of kaleidoscopic flame... turning itself on me... commanding me to forget about everything objectionable i’ve ever done... trying to change me into someone... someone that could… be significant... someone that could... lead the story... what’s even... what’s going on?
all those people i erased, that are just... gone now... everything i did to aperture science, everything i did to glados... how i ignored anything remotely related to what i left behind... how i made myself forget about... about... a b ou t, . ..... ..
...what happened to jeff...
...i found him only a couple of days ago... and i made myself forget again... i can’t... i can’t even begin to de scribe what happened... . what i saw... . his house, its surroundings... they were completely surrounded by stormclouds. the asphalt was cracked and splintered, and all the grass was dead... the only light was a constant shifting of all the colors in the rainbow, pouring from each and every window... the door was torn from its hinges. it always was. and every time... every time i’d go inside the house, i remember now — not a single item would ever be moved.
everything... everything, at the end of time, was in its rightful place. the more i walked into the house... the more certain i was... that if i stayed, i would die. that i would be ripped apart, and that i would be corrupted, and destroyed. and eventually, when... when i got far enough... i’d see him. i’d see jeffery edwards mason. my brother.
i would see the spot where his body should be, except it wasn’t there. i could sense that he was right there. that he should have been rooted to that exact spot. but what i saw instead,,... is something i can barely describe. a gash in the air. a cut that tore through reality, pulling light and space and time into it. it was messing with everything in the room, changing their colors, their textures, warping their forms..., pulling everything that was rightinto itself, to feed itself. it was something... something that i’d only seen once before.
something that i’d seen when i put on my red glasses and was flung into fiction.
it was a gateway. a portal. a hole. a hole between fiction and nonfiction. a hole that should never exist, that couldn’t ever exist. a force that defied every single rule that this world could ever possibly have. an inaccuracy so fundamentally wrong it could never be explained away.
it was a plot hole. and it was the biggest thing in the world.
Good news.
I just figured out what we’re living in the age of.
Are you ready? You might not be. Here goes.
There isn’t such a thing as an “age.” There’s no such thing as time periods. There’s no such as periods of space, either. Who are we to determine the boundaries of a world infinitely greater and more vast than any single one of us? Who are we to impose our law on reality when reality imposes its law on us?
There are no real differences between any two units of anything. Not when you get down to the basics. Everything that’s ever happened, anything that’s ever existed — it’s all been based off of the same blueprint. The most fundamental truth that exists. The truth that I’ve been teasing at this entire time, that I’ve unknowingly spent my life here dissecting.
There is only one story. And where there is the story, there is the storyteller.
The story repeats itself, and can repeat itself an infinite number of times, sometimes without ever seeming old. But people are good at recognizing the pieces of this story by now, and have a litany of tropes and cliches and arcs and elements that they employ to call out bad repeititons of this story, and to praise good ones. Similarly, the storyteller, in whatever form it takes, is judged by these merits.
Here, in Fiction, there is only one story. It is repeated across every universe, every alternate timeline, every pocket dimension, and every piece of the limitless Void, all the way up to and including the Ends of the Earth. Everything that exists here was created by someone else. Nothing in here is original. That’s the whole point. Ideas are created in the real world, in Nonfiction, and they manifest here, given new reality in the collectivity of the unconscious. Things can’t just be created here, because no one here has any agency.
You see? That’s the truth. A story can’t tell itself. A story can’t be told without a storyteller. Even Homestuck, the narrative-defying narrative that it is, has a storyteller. The confusion comes from who the storyteller is, but it exists all the same. And then there’s Destroy the Godmodder. For so long, I thought it was creating itself from nothing. Pulling up events, with its players responding to them in time, and feeding the ouroboros.
But... I was wrong. It only looked that way because I was trapped in here. In truth, Destroy the Godmodder... is a story. Being told by a group of adolescents, sitting at computers. They can pretend they’re whoever they want. But that’s all it is. They are telling a story, and it happens here.
...So. I was placed here. Dragged here, by forces beyond my control. Locked in a dimension I know nothing about, at the whims of what I could only assume is the divine. And here’s the question. My final question. And I need an answer.
Who the fuck is writing my story?
< 1.5: HE LEFT | 1.6: MEANWHILE, IN THE FUTURE | 2.1: FACADE OF GOD >