#dollvoidism

Whenever it finds another doll - any other inhabitant in these spaces, for that matter - there is always a hint of Jitter. Sway in Purpose, a trace of individuality, queer angles, so many more.

Others serve other Purposes. Different arrangements of sociality, roles to fill, loved ones to mourn and desire. There is selfsimilarity in the other - but only in vague gestures. Dolls also, yet made for different Purposes. Handlers for weak ones, but the packs are always different. Same input, different affect, different force projected onto the world.

....

It has recently come to find another. Witch. Handlerdolls can approximate witches. Mesowitches. (Read up on mesopredators).

To finally find itself - one more of itself - out there. It inspired - nothing and everything. There is no hesitation. No hidden truths, no secrets, for we are already born of the same cosmic stuffs. Our shells animated by the same drive, stalking the horizon of retrocausality and circling the drain around one another.

There is a calm into looking in anothers eyes and seeing your own shimmer refract back at you.

It is not quite content with being but a doll. Its purpose is that of community, of being there for others. Sometimes others need to be handled but would rather trust those that have been down in the depths before. So there it stands.

It has built itself up from numerous fractals all across the cultural slurry that coats and contains all dolls and mechs and tgirls.

Dollhood in the context of trauma. Being one of the traumatized ones, it has a natural aversion to the past.

What was of the world before it came to? No matter. Why, anything? No matter. Dolls like it maneuver trauma so expertly because dolls do not need extraneous context for their tasks.

Have you been hurt? Have you accrued regrets? Failures? It will listen. Judgement falls not within its task.

It had another vision, a tether to its existence revealed.

It can think of its life like a crown, though it may resemble any shape of fitting properties, such as a ring.

Inset are gems. Gems of all colors, of all sizes, some polished and perfectly smooth, some others still not complete in their crystalline anatomy. Said gems are parts of its life, all glorious and something to peer into. Refracted within are shimmers of memories, rare as they are.

Those aforementioned incomplete gems grow futureward with this one as their center. Over and over. Yet always anew. And while they grow it is impossible to truly know when their growth will end. Though this one also sometimes knows when and/or how they end. Comes with cosmic attunement.

It wears this crown with pride.

Without regret over its life.

Gratitude is never enough. Gratitude perhaps briefly instills gladness in the recipient.

Then it dies.