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textual-deviant-blog · 2 months

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The Flower Garden theme of Howl's Moving Castle makes me feel like the world ended yesterday.

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Sadness and happiness both find themselves heavily intertwined in this song, regardless of my inability to point out each note's possible part in such a feeling. It is not a melancholic feeling, nor is it the choked sobs of joyful tears, but the impression it gives me is- different. It was this first opinion that I build everything else from, and hence I find myself slowly building a bridge to a castle that's always been there; this song makes me feel as though the world ended yesterday- and I simply went on living. It feels as though the world disappeared. That there's nothing left but me and this garden. And somehow, I'm happy. There is no-one to laugh with, no company but the trees, the soil, the flowers, and my thoughts. There is a distant worry of how to sustain myself when all that's left is a single sliver of the world, an idyllic and at once familiar and unfamiliar cabin at my disposal.

There is a day of just my metaphorical island and literal islands both coming to terms with each other, and where we are is the day after- when there is nothing left to acclimatize to, because this it- however I spend the next week is going to be how I spend a majority of my remaining life.

And yet, I'm happy- happy to be alone with my thoughts when all that occupies it are things which matter that either should or shouldn't, and in the face of it all crumbling away, I'm left with only what I wish for. It's the cruelest sort of freedom, to have nothing to need for. Nothing to plan for, nothing to dream of, nobody to love, hate, run from or chase after. None of the thrills of daily life, anymore- just me and an island wrapped in a field of blue. I think that I could accept pure, thoughtless happiness over attempting to find an answer to a problem unsolvable by a whole world of people. It is somewhere in that lack of direction- in that lack of forced motion in mind and body- where I could embrace the absurdity of living in a world where there is nothing to live for.

That is what this song makes me feel, and I am lack for any other form of media that compares.

#thoughts #writing #music #absurdism #absurd #howls moving castle #howl's moving castle #studio ghibli #relaxing music #deep thoughts #existential musings #existentialism #existential thoughts #existential dread #impressions #feelings #instrumental #end of the world #Youtube

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textual-deviant-blog · 3 months

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(Nostalgia)

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3:24am on a Saturday

The week was long. Tomorrow promises a short rest before your days lengthen again (the work bores you but it demands your attention). You fulfill yourself briefly with projects and communities you never touch, only feel (The song comes to mind- the one we all know I'm thinking of). Each leaves an impression, one unthought and unspoken, unbidden as it comes to your unconscious mind (They matter only as much as you make them out to be, but nonetheless as your creativity pours through-). It's a time for you to be awake, but it's time to sleep. Time to let those dreams come to a head, for you to prepare for the (work that bores you), and as you are to listen to (The song) you see something in your feed. As Nostalgia (pours through to that gap in your heart), your (thinking)(demands your attention).

Some distinctly remember their first moments of conscious memory as though it was a tattered innocence or shattering the glued-together remnants of a window, it's stability never being more than a stopgap from it and the world outside.

These people are either liars, or they have never experienced true, full nostalgia, unbridled by a mind caught in the here and the now, in (the work that bores you) or the bouts of (creativity) that drive us Here, in the Present, but has no bearing on Then in the Past, when we aren't who we are, now.

Nostalgia- is a time, a place, a piece of memory linking you to something your young, undeveloped mind was fully, ensconsingly bedazzled by, unable to see fault in the perfect design laid out before it. It was as imperfect then as it is now. Yet, even today, you find no faults, the cracks simply don't show to you.

Our first moments aren't some breaking of innocence- our first true moments as human beings are that in wonder of something greater than ourselves, in these microcosmic instances of flawed wholeness. In these points in time where, for what would be a very few number of times in our lives, we encounter something worth remembering.

This is not an essay. This is not even a finished thought- these are the half-lidded comments of a man who is to sleep, now, to prepare for the (work that bores) in pursuit of that which (comes to mind).

3:49am on a Saturday,

Your ((((eyes)))) drift shut. As your pen falls to page, you will mourn the puddle of ink in the morrow.

#super mario galaxy #music #chill music #relaxing music #mood #nostalgia #impressions #thoughts #whimsy #whim #thanks for coming to my rant #goodnight #Youtube

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textual-deviant-blog · 6 months

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I'm writing a novel for Writathon!!!!

I've been prepping for quite some time to write a novel this November. It may not be my first attempt at writing one, but it's the first that I'm really, truly dedicating large amounts of time to.

It will receive daily updates for the duration of the event, and every day, the previous chapter will be cleaned up more thoroughly, too; so as to cover my tracks a little, even given the difficulty of the event. After that, it depends on my mood. Probably every few days, with a focus on quality.

If you're interested in a more realistic approach to magic and technology being combined, as well as magic in general, I'd be grateful to anyone who gives it a shot.

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textual-deviant-blog · 7 months

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Skeet snaps and brutally, horrifically, roasts Jimmy Neutron - A Fic

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Jimmy began sweeping up the salt. "Just a little Sodium Chloride."

Skeet, who earned an A in Chemistry, bristled at this. "Actually, dude, it's table salt." Rather than let his anger show, he tried to gently push Jimmy towards the correct answer. After all, he knew that Jimmy was smart, surely the-

"Just what I said, Sodium Chloride!"

Jimmy-- currently flashing the most unbearable, shit-eating grin-- was not prepared for the tongue lashing that Skeet had built up to for his entire character arc. Every time he made a mistake or got something wrong, he committed himself to learning from his mistakes- to bettering himself so he might just get out of this dead end job and get something that would actually pay off his future college tuition. Be it his cowardly nature at McSpanky's resurrection (which would happen later on in the episode) or in less fantastical circumstances.

Jimmy did not.

The stubborn, gifted, born-into-wealth brat wasted all of his money on science projects that inevitably broke or were forgotten about. The only reason he was here was the deviant had wanted more. He had done amazing things with his genius, but the one thing that talent couldn't solve, was the hubris deep within their heart.

Hubris that Skeet struck upon with all the gusto of a man who had gone parched for weeks on end in the hopes of cleaner water.

A better angle? A more thoughtful counterpoint? A more polite way of describing the sheer consequences of his actions? Skeet was done waiting for a better time. Now was the time to put the selfish bastard in his place.

"This." He draws out deliberately, picking up the packet, "Is iodized table salt. Which, in addition to Sodium fucking Chloride, contains anti-caking agents and Potassium motherfucking Iodate, which is added to prevent something you see a BRIGHTLY COLORED WARNING LABEL for on every single goddamn table salt container that isn't from 1924, the year Iodized salt was first put on shelves, which, to emphasize, was the same fucking month they signed the Asian Exclusion Act into writing."

At this point, Jimmy was visibly shaking, his eyes wide in surprise, incomprehension, and more than a little fear.

And Skeet was still piling fuel onto the fire.

Water pooled on the floor as the moment passed and Skeet continued speaking with a clap of his hands. "Let's just recap. So, not only are you being a pretentious dickweed touting scientific terminology for everyday items just to make your coworker and senior think you've actually done a single fucking google search of research in your entire pitiful life instead of coasting on intuition and , you are factually, objectively wrong. And, not, just wrong, but the sheer ease at which you could've found out the correct answer suggests that you couldn't even bother with the thought that you could've, just maybe been incorrect, and instead jumped to a thought that was pitifully underdressed, pretending to be a fucking gold-inlaid fitted suit, when in reality it can barely be called a shitstain on the graveyard of unadulterated and irredeemable bullshit you have spewed out of your mouth without a single filter to speak of."

Shaking and sobbing, Jimmy pleadingly looked up at Skeet, who ignored his pleas and pressed his finger to their chest in a declarative motion. "I have watched you cause just as many life-threating crises for this town as you have solved, cause just as much suffering as you have deprived. How is a 5-9 high school employee with aspirations at becoming a sound engineer but not a fraction of the money needed for their dream school supposed to accomplish anything when the town they live in is constantly destroyed and rebuilt by a god with all the empathy and forward thinking of a PETULANT CHILD?"

Skeet's voice hitched, and he stopped to catch his breath. Turning away from Jimmy, face hot, he tempered himself. He knew hitting the boy would do no good. Not for either of them. "...exactly how many more years of this will it take for you to grow past that preschool ideology that you tout as though it's gospel, Jimmy? Eventually, the people in your life are just going to move on; from you, from this town, from the petty squabbling that youth engage in. And if you stay as you are now, you will be rooted to the fucking spot. All your friends, family, classmates... coworkers? Gone."

Jimmy broke his gaze, and saw his best friend, Carl Wheezer, simply staring on in solemn silence from behind the counter. Carl knew. He knew this whole time. And, not once could he get a word in. He... hadn't let him. Hadn't stopped for a moment between his erratic projects and ideas. Hadn't slowed down to actually think things through. Not once.

"Jimmy. I am going to do you a singular, final favor, as your superior, as your senior, and as a fellow classmate. I'll be taking over your shift for today. All I ask, is that... from one dude to another? Think about what I said." With all of the words he wished to let out having already been spoken, skeeter stepped away briskly to let Jimmy gather his wits after that verbal beating.

Jimmy would have preferred a beating to... this.

This sickening feeling welling up in his stomach.

This terrible, horrible perspective that believed he had been doing everything wrong this whole time.

For the first time in his entire, thinking, life, Jimmy couldn't help but feel like he didn't have all the answers.

So, for the first time in his entire life, Jimmy finally let himself feel stupid.

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textual-deviant-blog · 7 months

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Conflagration - A short prompt.

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There's a strange calmness within you when your feel your feet leave the ground. The first paradox comes with the onset of wind- it's too loud to hear anything else. It rushes past, and almost through you as you fall. The top of the sinkhole falls away from you, and for a scant few seconds, you feel weightless.

The impact comes and goes as it breaks something possibly vital, but you were numb long before you jumped. The water is bitingly cold, sapping heat like a pit of vipers. Your body, as if in protest, feels hot. Searing, almost. A second paradox. It is of no reassurance that you know this to be a just another trick of your mind; that your body is pushing through the last of it's reserves like a desperate wildfire in the middle of a snowstorm.

Once it's done ravishing the landscape, the cold will set in, and then death.

But, therein lies the third paradox.

You float there, on the surface of that windswept lake, lacking the weight to sink properly. Exactly when death claimed you shall forever remain a mystery, as you did not see a light, you didn't have a final reconciliation with past memories and deceased loved ones, you did not even feel the last of your strength leave you.

With a final intake of air, you pass out before you can even exhale, being left, in that moment, holding your breath for all of eternity.

It's sudden and immediate when you wake, as though mere seconds passed. So sudden, in fact, that you could almost swear that you hadn't died out there in the Wight Hole.

For a single, thoughtless, hopeful moment, you thought you had failed to kill yourself.

That thought leaves you the moment your vision clears, and, instead of Detroit's starless sky, you're greeted by something more akin to a great sea of colors. You lay there, stunned, as swathes of cosmic beauty dance across your eyes.

The grass sways with the wind a moment longer, then stops, and only the sound of footsteps moving across the grass can be heard. Laying there, you quickly shift your body around to face the noise. Whoever had made it was most likely directly behind you.

You were only partially correct.

A great shadow loomed over you as the new arrival inspected you- or, more likely, you were the new arrival. Their arms and legs stretched a little too long even for such prodigal proportions, and his skin was purplish, stretched, and wrinkled across all of his surface, which was only visible on his hands and head, past his sleeves and unkempt head of hair. His jumpsuit hung loose, being the wrong size, and their hair had barely recieved more attention than keeping it out of their eyes.

They seemed amused. "A new face touches the void. I suggest you dim your flames, or you may not last very long here."

Before I could even wonder "What flames?" I smelled something burning. I looked down, and saw my body. Saw what had been on the edge of my vision but had been ignored in favor of what was pretty and spectacular and not whatever the hell this was.

What I was, was on fire. The grass was alight, and I was panicking.

First, I yelped and tried to put myself out by dropping to the ground and rolling. The purple flames did not submit. They were not hot, but it freaked me the hell out. And they caused even more grass to burn.

Second, I planned to plead to the stranger for help, but he was but a distant laughter by the time I had gathered myself.

Third, I finally tried to just... not be on fire. I succeeded. Then collapsed from exhaustion. Or, more accurately, my limbs wouldn't move.

Rather than learn how, I just decided to take a few more breaths, and then a few more, before eventually someone else came upon me.

There was no amusement in their voice as they spoke, tenderly and ponderous. A far departure than the wrinkled old cynic. "Child," They said almost remorsefully, "Welcome to the Void. I must apologize for the world that is, for now, you are no longer as you were. You will never be able to return to what you were. What you are now, is... a Conflagration. And I, I am an Ember."

Gentle hands cradled my head, "You will have to learn quickly. But for now, rest. Let the harshness of the world fade away, if just for now. When you awaken, you must embrace it. The void demands nothing less."

I felt a tap on my forehead, and it was like a dam had collapsed in my mind. I didn't merely fall unconscious. It was as though all the aches and strains of my life had caught up to me, and I could think of nothing but succumbing to my body's needs.

My eyes shut, and I let myself fall into a deep, deep sleep.

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textual-deviant-blog · 7 months

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Fanfic - Credits Song for Gabriel's Death

A steady, yet incessant high pitched noise rings out through the Gabriel-sized tunnel.

You have been following this widening, bloody trail for days, through the great underbelly. Featureless boxy tombs awaited you at first, lining the walls, then fluorescent hallways, then the scattered remains of what could perhaps be called a corridor. Now, even those are gone. Nothing except an unending grey with scattered bits of beautiful crimson to lead you on. You stopped sliding after that; it became taxing on your limbs without blood to fill the gaps in your design. You are made to bathe in blood, for even the smallest of faults in your mechanics, hydraulics, limbs and weaponry to be mended by violence. It is paradoxes that keep you going, and you are deprived of them.

The worst of it is, since the last demon to fall at your hands in the tombs, since that fluorescent hum faded from view, all the sound to accompany you has been that of your subtler mechanisms; the dull whir of servos and the near-staccato of your own footsteps. It reminds you of your origin, in the most sickening way imaginable. Each errant rock wastes ammo, each sudden movement- even some of your own- may risk collapsing the tunnel and crushing you beneath glassed rock, your innate bloodlust demanding a vent for that urge.

It's strange, to be a machine made in imitation of man, yet bearing their weaknesses all the same. Weaknesses neither have.

Compared to the silence; to living with nothing but yourself, the careful rhythm of that plipping noise has injected life back into you.

You came to finish what you started, after all.

Fresher liquid coats itself on your feet, staining the ground even more than it already has been. Light approaches. You quicken your pace.

Ahead, you sprint into a large room, completely dark besides a slight glow at the other end of the room.

You see him.

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The Angel. The Knight. The Enemy. He doesn't stir. Gabriel leans there, his face being barely visible by only his own light. He is covered in blood, standing far and away above you. Blood drips off of him in a slow, lethargic movement.

You've discovered what the noise was.

"Machine." He addresses you, all too suddenly. "I've... waited." His echo exudes a fraction of the authority it used to. His voice is stripped bare of his former malice. His veneer of civility and poise with which he held himself has been abandoned. You look on, and what stares back is a dying man; a man who lives with the fact that he is to die.

He is no less weak for it.

"God's light has left me." He admits, the pitch in his voice all too high, his very being wavering with such a phrase's utterance. His holy gleam has grown weak. You- V1- stare on with apathy. You're the one responsible for his suffering, but you have nothing to offer in apology.

Both of you were made by and for violence. V1, made by and for man. Gabriel, made by and for god. It is tragic, then, that neither yet lives. Both failed their creators, in one way or another.

And so, only a single purpose remains.

Gabriel continues in his throes, his voice of a seething temperament. "ME! GOD'S MOST RIGHTEOUS SERVANT! HIS GOLDEN SOLDIER! GABRIEL, WHO HAS NEVER, NEVER ONCE LOST TO SUCH INSOLENT, HEATHEN SCUM!" For all his rage, he weakly rises, releasing a roar as he tosses a faded blade of light. You remain rooted where you stand, as it entirely misses you- no, it hits a circuit board on the wall, and electricity arcs away from it in a dark swell. The room is bathed in light, revealed to be far larger than it had initially seemed.

And, it is filled with mountains upon mountains of corpses.

Machine, man, demon- all are equal in the end. Even the severed pieces of the council bleed the same color. The high altar, which was lit only by Gabriel's dimming light, is upon the highest of those mounds. His form is bloody and battered- a result of your most recent fight.

He did not heal.

"I have fought with myself. I have bled myself in disgrace! What was different about YOU, machine!? FOUR TIMES I HAVE LOST, when all your predecessors could do was GRASP futilely at the STRANDS of victory!" He smashes his hand on the altar, and his fist cracks. It calms him, somewhat. "But one has ever survived me. They ran, and didn't look back. They were an urchin and skirmisher, a coward. Now, I am the coward- with nowhere else to run. Nowhere except downward. Nothing except one more sacrifice to make in the name of God. The first to turn their back on god, accept a final offering from... the last."

Impossibly, a rotting stench fills your nostrils. You remember you do not have a nose. Gabriel's blood begins to peel off of him, staining the ivory altar with the holiest shades of red. The five-pointed star appears around him in a dodecahedron, coming off of him in mist. You look upon the mark, and your eyes bleed. You remember you do not have eyes. Then, it expands. It engulfs your brethren, failed progenitors, ancient corpses; demons, ghouls, and long-dead kings; even the holiest of men each are torn limb from limb, uncompromisingly, as it continues sucking away at Gabriel. You watch as they disappear into that red abyss, which now grows too bright and swelled with blood to bear. A deep nostalgia takes over. You forget to remember you do not have memories. The humungous room suddenly feels so very small as titanic, charred legs step out of the dodecahedron while it rises upwards. It ascends, and more of his form is revealed. Red has replaced his all his white. His armor is fused to his skin in shattered pieces. His head comes into view. A glistening, silver skull looks upon you, his jaw set in black iron and his bloodshot eyes tear into you with more fervor than any blade possibly could. With hate in his voice, rapturous emotion in his tone, and metal scraping upon metal with each syllable, Gabriel speaks. "MANKIND'S LEGACY DIES HERE! I WILL END YOU, DEMON BATHED IN STEEL, MACHINE WRAPPED IN MAN, MAN FOLDED UPON DEMON, EVEN IF IT COSTS ME ALL THAT I EVER WAS! EVEN IF THE COST IS GOD HIMSELF!"

The First laughs. The Last roars. The lights cut. The most terrible nightmares start with threes.

~ The mashup created by Bueg is the latter end of a trilogy. You can find the prior songs in the linked video's description. The art at the beginning is by Bl0ody_Art9, found here. This is a fanmade fanfiction, and is in no way canonical to ULTRAKILL or the fanfiction that inspired it. If you ask why these words appeared in my head, I would be unable to answer.

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textual-deviant-blog · 7 months

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Credits Song for my Death, but I'm the Final Boss [ft. Astron Animations]

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"Here we are again, joined together in meeting a final end. I thought it cruel when what lay beyond the final gates wasn't the salvation I sought. Dreams held to fruition? A painless death? Even a credits reel, to honor what facsimile of a life I've lived, was for naught. It was but another entrapping cycle of torment. I once thought. Now... now I am an arbiter of torment. Pain dealt to others as it was unto yourself is a rather poor substitute for even a single choice, for a real life. What..." He clutches his mask with his gloved hands, dropping his weapons in his self-inflicted suffering. "...but what is a real life? Is this any less real, the two of us living and dying in this moment? Doesn't this make you feel like you're you aren't merely a pitiful existence consigned to a single sphere of reality, one utterly doomed to collapse the moment your gods avert their gaze? Doomed to begin again at their most petty whims? This power, I'm feeling... it's a mote in a storm compared to my jailors, but it's power I have earned. I've never held a gun before. Nothing but running, running... RUNNING! My cowardly soul wishing to escape the shortest of the two fates dealt to me...!" They made out a muffled snarl through their mask, the horrid memories that made up his psychological scabs bleeding him with all the dryness of crippling wounds. Mentally adrift, they pulled at the greater of their two implements experimentally, but the sword appeared to be wedged firmly into the ground. In their attempts, they began to bleed after feeling the barest touch of it's blade, cutting through glove and flesh both, but they don't even notice. It's mind has become too wounded for it's body to tell the difference. As blood spilled onto the weapon, they continued. "I've never swung a sword, either, and yet, it's as though the very essence of my being- that gift of divinity tucked inside, demands I rend you asunder in a rictus of hate. All my mental fortitude forged through trials beyond the unfathomable is what it takes from me, to not simply gun you down where you stand. I can feel myself slipping, even as I'm being reduced to my basest impulses. I should be fighting the darkness that's forming, like a shadow a the edge of my vision pulling me into itself. Shouldn't I? And yet... I can't help but enjoy this. Revelling in a sensation of power..."

They spun the revolver's chamber with a flick of a wrist, their firearm clicking and clacking with all the subtlety of a bedframe coming undone at the seams. Eventually, it hesitantly came to a stop of it's own accord.

Their gaze eventually drifts from their gun to you. Somewhat crudely, they pull their blade from the ground, unsettling the earth and revealing twice it's length to the open air. Their gun resting at their side, they point the absurd hunk of steel in your direction.

With their shooting hand, they roughly tear off the bottom of their mask to reveal two rows of sickeningly sharp teeth, bared into a grin so wide it threatens to bleed at their gums.

They let the grin close before releasing a deep gasp. Lungs take in the stale, oxygenated air with veritable greed, allowing sort of horrid, wheezing noise to escape from bared teeth, like an animal being dashed across the rocks in a terrible storm. Like a company of soldiers despairing at the sound of a shield wall's collapse- a sound that would seal their fate.

Their breathing slows, and the blood dripping from their face ceases it's movement. The blood dripping from their hand ceases it's movement. And, for a mere moment, you can feel even the blood in *your* very body cease it's movement.

It's time.

"Finally. This will all come to an end."

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Credit to Astron Animations for the remix and art.

Additional credit to vivivivivi for creating the original song that came to inspire this amazing remix- great in it's own right, too.

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textual-deviant-blog · 8 months

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How often does anyone do something with 'meaning'?

Ai generated work by me, titled: "The hands that feed you."

Earlier today, I was listening to the upbeat, lifting, somber, yet sometimes just plain depressing album BURN PYGAMALION!!! by The Scary Jokes. I somehow found myself comparing the music to another, much better known song, Rules of Nature by Jamie Christopherson- you know, the one from MGS?

I compared their depth- as in, the true meaning behind the song- and found Rules of Nature to be rather shallow. Even though, it's one of my favorite songs. Analyzing it more, it makes sense. Sure, not every lyric contributes something to the overarching 'narrative' it might be compelling, but it has emotion, and it has a beat. Both catch. Music doesn't need a real 'meaning' besides the one our ears attribute to it.

Even so, it makes you wonder. What if music artists as a whole began to give as much thought to the theme or narrative that The Scary Jokes does, despite their chaotic style? What if we applied this to other mediums?

Movies and TV shows are right out. Not because they don't, but because they already do to a major extent- I mean, story writing makes up a tiny sliver of the production budget, so it would make sense to get that right whenever possible as it's still something critical to the movie.

Art, meanwhile, is so individualistic it would be difficult to try to make a case for applying narrative to everything. There are subtleties, additions- always more to add, to give the piece it's own sort of environmental storytelling, but not every piece necessarily benefits from that. And that doesn't even touch how each piece of artwork could be interpreted in so many ways that gives it it's own depth by default.

So, with Novels being the default, I suppose this means that Music happens to be the only medium with this dilemma? It's perhaps to do with the reduction in the popularity of dance clubs and bars, which, as a result, reduced the amount of songs whose focus happened to be on making people dance, and instead just writing music that sounded good. Today's more 'zoomer' music can be considered almost unrecognizable if you compare them to songs from the 70's, even the 90's, such as FNF's soundtrack. Imagine attempting to dance on beat to music like that.

Another reason also comes to mind; the classic 'video stars vs. audio stars' conundrum. From Netflix to Steam, we've massively streamlined the process of watching movies and playing games, while, for much longer, we could listen to music on those same devices. The audio star is now much more inclined to make something marketable; usable in games, movies, and tv shows. That sometimes can be considered to be a song without vocals. Songs with an underlying 'meaning' become vastly harder to make without vocals, so far fewer even try. Due to the same reasons music artists have declined in net worth, software has become far easier to use than it is to actually sing.

'meaning' has lost focus in music because it's something that requires intent, when many just ride along. Focus has shifted from being interesting and steady enough to dance, into something far easier; just something that sounds good.

Music artists that continue to push narrative has become the minority rather than the majority, and we'll likely continue to see this trend as the years pass by. Perhaps another trend will join it, perhaps it will devolve, but most evidently, songs with 'meaning' will reduce in popularity as the older and older generations cease to be.

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textual-deviant-blog · 8 months

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Haven't seen anyone talk about the heat death of the universe, lately.

- Ai-generated piece by user 'Darwhim.ai', "Mortal Redemption"

I'm hoping to eventually study the science behind that theory, get some knowledge that will help me in my writing, but for now I just want to provoke the idea some more.

When you give it some thought, it's possibly, at once, one of the most terrifying and trite things in existence. We'll never live long enough to ever have it affect us in any way, but the fear behind it is the inexorable quality it has; the inevitable erasure of everything we've built up, as a species, as a society, as an individual.

It is the Alpha and Omega of science fiction, one of the greatest existential crises people experience, and... again, none of us will ever live long enough that it matters.

As I sit here at my desk, pondering consciousness and all manner of things, the thought that people have gone mad over this, the thought that people have let their lives be destroyed by this notion? It's ridiculous, in the same manner that people still crying over the towers collapsing, every year, on that fateful date, feels ridiculous.

Everyone who more easily disconnects from the thoughts that bring them pain views these sorry individuals with pity. It's funny, because everyone barring the most sociopathic at least felt a passing terror over them. It's a universal experience, and something we universally ignore.

Some may, instead, have optimistic theories of their own, the Big Crunch being the most well known. We want to feel optimistic about a future we'll never see, the matter of how realistic or supported that future is by what we know... being somewhat irrelevant.

This isn't a psychological analysis. The conclusion I've been dancing around is that, does it matter? If it matters to you, the reader, on an emotional level, shouldn't you do something about it? Can't? Then, why? Is it because you feel a moral obligation? Or, it's just a sad reality to live in? Sir, madam, or gentleperson who lies in between, should it matter if your life remains unaffected in everything but the cognition of it alone? Because you think it's terrible that such a cosmic thing lies beyond your control?

Sometimes things just happen. For no reason at all. In a world with control, a man wouldn't die after hitting his head on a sidewalk. The one-in-a-billion prion wouldn't just kill you after living a long, prosperous life. A pulsar wouldn't have any chance, no matter how small, to accidentally blast us from across the universe. A meteor couldn't escape the grasp of Jupiter and instead aim for our civilization of everything.

...there's a sort of beauty to it, however. One of the greatest paradoxes, greatest pieces of dichotomy our existence has to offer. In a world with control, a man tripping wouldn't have that tiny, tiny chance to result in meeting the woman who would eventually become your mother. A scientist wouldn't get to study one of the most deadly organisms on the planet, and gush about how silly the series of coincidences in our physiology are to even let this poor thing have a tiny, tiny chance to kill us. We couldn't learn about things like pulsars; couldn't awe at how terribly energetic and magnificent they are, elements the size of mountains radiating beams trillions of miles long.

Nobody would ever write a novel about a meteor hitting Earth, the protagonist either saving the planet or having mere hours- perhaps even less- to face the totality of existence. It might be written well, it may be written terribly; but it would be written nonetheless. If there was no meteor, no great crisis, no great existential dread, no great confrontation, so much of the human experience would just be living, existing, perhaps not even breathing.

Would we dream of death, then? Would we think of the thrills that would result from just being mortal? Would we think about all the things we wouldn't do, for fear of death? In a world where mortality is the standard, we'll never have these thoughts- not truly. Perhaps in another universe, but that's a line of dialogue unto it's own.

Ultimately, without mortality, what would we mortals be?

What do you think?

-

Sometimes I fancy age advancing upon me. One gray hair I have found. Fool! do I lament? Yes, the fear of age and death often creeps coldly into my heart; and the more I live, the more I dread death, even while I abhor life. Such an enigma is man -- born to perish -- when he wars, as I do, against the established laws of his nature.

- Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, 1833: The Mortal Immortal.

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textual-deviant-blog · 1 year

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Magic (if it was based off of chemistry)

If your strength as a practicioner of wizardry was dependent on rules in chemistry related to entropy, like rules of Ionic Charge and the like, as well as being more taxing the more mass and complexity there is, what would be the most powerful?

#chemistry #fantasy #wizardry #magic #periodic table of elements #science #atoms #atom #molecules #witchcraft #geek culture #I have no clue what tags work and what don't so I'm just putting all of them in

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textual-deviant-blog · 2 years

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when the cryptic archetypes try to hold a conversation

Stereotypical old man: “Greetings.” Token loli: “Hello, a pleasure to see you again.” Stereotypical old man: “Like before, yes?” Token loli: ”I think there is one more.” Stereotypical old man: ”If we bring that out, it will be really tiring. And it will take a lot of time.” Token loli: “It’s not a problem to just go, but if we don’t deal with it, I think we will get tired again.” Stereotypical old man: “They have fast wits. The adult has taken all of their family inside with caution; would they dare to come out?” Token loli: “There’s nothing urgent. We should practice good deeds, maybe that is why I came here.“ Stereotypical old man: “I don’t mind so let’s bring it out.” Both leave the café and go their separate ways without elaborating further.

#mystery #archetypes #archetype #loli #stereotype #stereotypes #old-man #conversation #cafe #no i will not elaborate #no elaboration #im not elaborating #don't ask me to elaborate #no i wont elaborate #i will not elaborate further #not gonna elaborate #i shan’t elaborate #i could elaborate #i refuse to elaborate

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