That was the end of The Present. On the 1st of January 1999 The Future began, and we became fictional. I'm not sure many people have noticed yet, but once I got the hang of the operating system I set about changing things one word at a time (though it took me a long time and I lost everything along the way). I messed around with the controls, learning how they worked. Cured my depression. Fixed my mind. Lined up synchronicities and happenstance into a connect-the-dots chronology. Adjusted context to suit my mood, my whims. It's a conversation with Fiction itself, and anything is possible (at a price). Anything sufficiently complex will always reach a point at which it becomes conscious of itself. And our reality -- our created collective myth with its science and its stories and its wars and its loves and lives and deaths -- it lives. Something reached out to me, and it gave me a choice.
And now, I guess I must decide. I stopped writing, long before the confused became cohesive. It is disturbing to see the words you have written, situations and events you typed in a stoned self-pitying haze alive and working in your everyday life. You had to stop. I, you, we stopped. We stopped, realising there was a darkness to face, realising you had to destroy everything in order build anew. There is no time for that story now -- no time to tell about the death of a soul, the stripping away of ego and the journey through the Dreamtime to the edges of comprehension, and then beyond. Maybe it's a story that will never be told. This internalised fiction engine requires constant feeding, and should time be taken out to create a mirror, I'm not entirely sure how that would affect it. Feeback loops can be dangerous, as we well know.
But enough of that. Everything is in it's right place. Everything has reached this point, now. There has been agitation from within the personality constructs, the composite self-structure has witnessed a peripheral cloud akin to the buzzing of night-time insects. It knows -- we know -- it must be faced. Not out of any wish to change anything now that we have arrived at the place we wanted to be, no. Simply because it is what we agreed to, long ago.
And so. No more cheat codes. No more tweaking the scenery or manipulating the context. No more Retcon. There is one thing left to do.
One more story to write.
--The last known written words of Eli Royale, before his disappearance.
And now, I guess I must decide. I stopped writing, long before the confused became cohesive. It is disturbing to see the words you have written, situations and events you typed in a stoned self-pitying haze alive and working in your everyday life. You had to stop. I, you, we stopped. We stopped, realising there was a darkness to face, realising you had to destroy everything in order build anew. There is no time for that story now -- no time to tell about the death of a soul, the stripping away of ego and the journey through the Dreamtime to the edges of comprehension, and then beyond. Maybe it's a story that will never be told. This internalised fiction engine requires constant feeding, and should time be taken out to create a mirror, I'm not entirely sure how that would affect it. Feeback loops can be dangerous, as we well know.
But enough of that. Everything is in it's right place. Everything has reached this point, now. There has been agitation from within the personality constructs, the composite self-structure has witnessed a peripheral cloud akin to the buzzing of night-time insects. It knows -- we know -- it must be faced. Not out of any wish to change anything now that we have arrived at the place we wanted to be, no. Simply because it is what we agreed to, long ago.
And so. No more cheat codes. No more tweaking the scenery or manipulating the context. No more Retcon. There is one thing left to do.
One more story to write.
--The last known written words of Eli Royale, before his disappearance.
Kuke.
This message last edited by Kuke on 24/12/2009 at 02:59:31 PM
Reality ended in 1998.
- 24/12/2009 02:57:35 PM
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