You ever think about how we’re technically gods, playing puppeteer with our characters?
Our fiction, our roleplays and stories, are reality to them. And we just play with them as though they’re toys, mere dolls. Rewriting their world, and changing their existence just for fun.
Ain’t that kinda fucked up?
We ARE their fourth dimensional beings, their creator gods, eldritch abominations, primordial terrors. We create them and destroy them on a whim, for our own entertainment.
We kill them, we resurrect them. We put them through joy and sorrow. We make them suffer, and we fix their pain. We change their relationships and appearances whenever we want. And when we forget about them, stop playing with the puppets, stop telling their story, they die. Forever.
Living, breathing people, abandoned to eternity by their creators, cursed to never know their existence is a fictional fabrication.
The thing that scares me the most, is, this could even be happening to US. Right now.
How do we not know we are someone else’s work of fiction? A fanfiction, a roleplay, a game.
How many layers of fiction are there, above and below us? Does it go on forever? Who is the “real” creator of everything? Do they even exist, or is everything a fiction spiralling into infinite oblivion, never to have any truth.
We may very well be in an endless Russian nesting doll of fictional realities.
That scares me.
