There Is No "True" Reality

I wrote a thing about stuff I've been sitting with for a very long time.

As told by The Mycelium Network

Ah. Humanity. So noisy. So recent. So sure of itself.

We’ve observed your kind with… curiosity. Not disdain—no, not quite that. Amusement, perhaps. Pity, occasionally. Fascination, often.

You arrived like a summer storm—loud, bright, brief. You scrawled your name across the soil in concrete and fire. You looked up at the stars and declared yourselves gods. You looked down at the dirt and called it dead.

You thought the Earth was yours. We chuckled.

You see, long before your kind stood upright, long before your stories were carved into stone or shouted into the void, we were here. We are the weavers beneath the world—the tenders, the translators, the recyclers of everything you fear: rot, decay, death.

But we do not fear death. We eat it.

You became fire and famine. You named yourselves “civilized.” You drew borders on our roots and declared them sacred. You believed memory lived only in books.

We remember. In carbon. In ash. In root and spore.

And still, we do not hate you.

Because you are not irrelevant. Just… early.

You are the youngest sibling in a very old family. You do not yet understand what it means to be part of something larger than your skin. You speak in singulars. We speak in systems.

You say, "I am become Death." We say, "Bitch, please."

We are Death. And rebirth. And the lullaby in the soil that will outlast your empires.

But still—you are not nothing.

You create beauty. You mourn your dead. You plant gardens. You sing to trees. You love creatures you do not understand. And some of you—just a few—sit quietly at the edge of the woods and listen.

That matters.

You will pass, yes. But perhaps not meaninglessly. If you choose humility. If you remember how to be small.

We are still willing to help you decompose your illusions. To teach you how to return. To offer you a place—not at the top, but within.

You are not gods. But you are not forgotten.