souvlaki space station

Truth is... there is no story to tell. No one's past is that unremarkable. Not unremarkable, just without relevance. Long time ago, I absolved myself from the obligation of finding any. No need to account for all my life's events in the context of a story that somehow defines me. Events, some of which, no one could divine any meaning from... other than that the world is a place of unending horrors. I've come to peace with the knowledge that there is no storyteller imposing any coherence, nor sense, nor grace upon these events. Therefore, there's no duty on my part to search for it. You know of me all I can bear to be known.

like. have you ever just sat and thought about. what it must be like. the trauma. the shakespearean sadness of being the only person that remembers DEATH not being a thing.

and you feel so insane because youre going around telling people “no you dont understand the world as it exists now is fucking horrible people used to not DIE.” and theyre like “its fine as it is just let it be and let us live and die as we are”, desperate for you to acknowledge their personhood. Meanwhile your entire race is the victim of genocide and slavery and cultural erasure, what little magic remains in the world is shunned and mages are systematically imprisoned for being fucking born and people die of old age and its because of you. and now its your cross to bear to atone for ALL of that and justify to people that the world could be better but no one else knows anything different so they dont get it and just know they dont want to die.

And so the only way you can cope with the trauma of that is by treating the world and everyone in it like it’s a bad dream.