Ghosts

[Ookla the Wisdom Shouter]

Dear Skyward,

You at least have to be real. I've decided that even if none of this matters, you still matter. Your smile still lights up a room. It makes me want to smile, for just one more day.

I've always loved the simulation theory. Occam's razor. The belief that a universe as complex as ours is impossible, and the much simpler explanation is that none of us are really real. It's all just a simulation. A dream. For centuries humans have been exploring that very idea, with stories like the Truman Show, the Matrix, Inception, and the many other adaptations of the same theme. Each asks the question, "What if none of this is real? What if the only thing that's real... is me."

"Solipsism," they call it. The belief that you're the only person in the universe that matters. The universe sprang into existence when you become conscious and it will vanish when you die. It's irrefutable. How could anybody else convince me they really had free will, that they were really more than a product of my imagination? I could never know for sure. Do I believe that? Not really. But deep down that belief still calls to me. In those moments of silence between long days, I hope beyond hope that I am somehow important. That I am more than a speck of dust in the cosmos, hopeless, tiny, irrelevant. Barely more than a ghost. Because either the universe is mine, or it is nobody's. Either I own the world, or it's all a lie, and we're all just... irrelevant. But you're not irrelevant. You at least, have to be real.

I wish someone could prove me wrong. I wish someone could convince me that I wasn't alone. I just want to wake up. I JUST WANT TO WAKE UP! And you, Skyward, you probably think you're awake too. But how could you ever convince me, when you don't even know that you're not alone either. Maybe we're all alone. 

And of course there's another possibility. I've always been arrogant, but I have to face the statistics. What are the chances that I'm the only one in the universe who matters? Of all the millions of people that could have lived, why would it be me? Which means maybe I'm not the one living in the simulation. Maybe I'm part of it. Maybe I'm a creation of your mind, meant to draw you in, fool you. Make you think you could live. Maybe I'm not real, you are. I'm living in your dream. I'm orbiting your universe. Maybe it was always about you.

I know you're real, I've seen your smile. I know you're real, I've read your words, as warm as any hug, as you promise me I can be happy. You lift me up. Make me feel like I'm not irrelevant, that my struggles matter. I can tell you anything, and you'll listen. You'll cry with me, pray for me. You're the hero of the story, because you fight every day. Maybe I love you just because I envy you. I want to fight. I want to matter. 

But I'm not real. You are.

So go live your life while I live this lie. Reach for the sky while I stay abandoned on the ground. The stars are infinite. So are you. Every day I'll smile, because you won't be happy unless you see I can be happy... without you. Unfortunately, that's not how love works. But... you don't have to know that. It's worth every second of pain to know you can be happy. It's worth lying to you every day just to see your smile. I'll carry the burden of this simulation, this world within worlds. So you can be happy. Because that's what love is. I hoped once that I could be part of your reality. That if I became your anchor, you'd find a way to pull me with you, up toward the stars. I was hoping that if our stories became entangled, we'd both have freewill. 

I have realized one thing though. If this was all fake, I wouldn't feel so broken. Shattered by the earthquakes of love. My pain is like a hole in the illusion. 

You made me real.

 

—Sincerely, Stoneward

[Ookla the Wisdom Shouter]

Spoiler

For my 200th post, you guys get some context. 

So as a small number of you may have seen via status update, I like to write every day. But sometimes my novel is giving me a ton of trouble and I just want to free-write something to get my hour of writing in. And so I come here, and write something unedited. Sometimes it's a long reply to my AMA thread, other times its a way too in depth analysis of a story, in the form of one of my essays. But though I hoped to write a third essay for my 200th post it was beginning to feel like homework, so I decided to come back here instead.

I honestly love the letter above so much more when you get it without context, and you have to discover what type of person the writer is without even knowing his real name. He or she is writing a letter to someone who will never read it... and it's hard to say who's more important: the person who the letter's about, or the author. But here I am giving you context anyway.

I love stories told in a strobe light, from a single very-skewed point of view. And so the author of the letter above could be all sorts of people, but still this letter format lets me experiment with voice, letter-format, and it lets me write about random thoughts that hit me hard. In essence this thread is just "The Isochronism's Writing Corner" (although I don't know why anyone would insists on writing in a corner) but I decided to title it "Ghosts" because you're never actually in the head of the characters that exist here. You never meet them. You don't even know if they're real. They could be merely ghosts. 

That doesn't mean I'll always stick to the letter format, but it satisfies my need for free-writing for now. So if any of you are curious what my writing is like when it's not actually good (in my real novels) then you're welcome to read through my random scenes. I would also love to hear thoughts if there is specific stuff you think is interesting. I'm not really looking for feedback per se, because these are just fun, but you're still welcome to tell me things!

Thanks for being a community that supports writers. Love you guys!

Dear Skyward,

I cheated. That first time I saw you, when I showed you my deck of cards and pretended to read your mind. I cheated. 

Obviously you knew magic wasn't real, but you told me I was real. That my reality was enough. I tried to tell you that I wasn't actually amazing, that the secret was in the cards, but you wouldn't listen. You said you didn't want to know, you wanted it to keep being amazing. You wanted to believe even though you had no reason to. Now I want that too. Let me believe.

The deck was marked. I know I can perform similar tricks without a marked deck, but it's nowhere near as smooth. I bet it would disappoint you to figure that out, that the only thing that makes me special is that I can read numbers hidden in the complex back of the card. I'm a magician, I'm supposed to be more than that. Every trick is supposed to be me, but no matter what effect I waste my time creating, the most amazing effects are the ones that are the most simple. Nobody cares about the complex sleight of hand, or the time that goes into memorizing a stack. Nobody cares about the subtle magician's forces, or the multi-step effects that do things that even a magician could believe was impossible... They assume they understand the most complex of forces, yet they look past the most simple marking forever.

Magicians are a type of artist, I suppose. All that matters is creating art. We can't decide if people will love it, we can only strive to create. Over, and over, and over again. I hold these cards because they transform me into more than a human. I become a magician. Someone confident, who always has another trick up their sleeve. Someone who doesn't make mistakes, because every mistake is a part of the show. Everything becomes intentional. 

You asked me once how I was so confident in my own abilities. The truth is... I'm not. I tried to tell you that, but he wouldn't listen. You told me it was real, or at least that I was real. That my reality was enough. But every day that confidence crumbles further, and my clever props become less and less effective. When their simplicity is revealed, and my simplicity comes out, then maybe you'll see why I needed to be more. Maybe then you'll understand why I needed... You.

In a deck full of marked cards, one card is normal. It bears no markings, because there is nothing on its face. The double sided card that comes with so many decks, which some magicians use for their tricks. Not me though. To me, that card is useless. And let every time my audience sees it, they're suspicious. While every fake card escapes their notice, the only normal card seems extraordinary. 

I am that card. I have no face, only an image. I look fantastic, mystical, and useful. But in reality I'm useless. But then again... maybe every card is useless. On its own a deck is just paper. Without a magician or artist to give us value, we're all nothing. And maybe... just maybe, the magician doesn't have any value on his own either. Maybe he gets his value from us.

Where do you get your value? Are you a magician, or a card? A creator, or a creation? What makes you special? Because you are special, somehow. Which means as much as I hate to admit it... maybe I am too.

Sincerely, Stoneward

Edited November 1 by The Isochronism

[Ookla the Believer]

15 minutes ago, The Isochronism said:

Dear Skyward,

I cheated. That first time I saw you, when I showed you my deck of cards and pretended to read your mind. I cheated. 

Obviously you knew magic wasn't real, but you told me I was real. That my reality was enough. I tried to tell you that I wasn't actually amazing, that the secret was in the cards, but you wouldn't listen. You said you didn't want to know, you wanted it to keep being amazing. You wanted to believe even though you had no reason to. Now I want that too. Let me believe.

The deck was marked. I know I can perform similar tricks without a marked deck, but it's nowhere near as smooth. I bet it would disappoint you to figure that out, that the only thing that makes me special is that I can read numbers hidden in the complex back of the card. I'm a magician, I'm supposed to be more than that. Every trick is supposed to be me, but no matter what effect I waste my time creating, the most amazing effects are the ones that are the most simple. Nobody cares about the complex sleight of hand, or the time that goes into memorizing a stack. Nobody cares about the subtle magician's forces, or the multi-step effects that do things that even a magician could believe was impossible... They assume they understand the most complex of forces, yet they look past the most simple marking forever.

Magicians are a type of artist, I suppose. All that matters is creating art. We can't decide if people will love it, we can only strive to create. Over, and over, and over again. I hold these cards because they transform me into more than a human. I become a magician. Someone confident, who always has another trick up their sleeve. Someone who doesn't make mistakes, because every mistake is a part of the show. Everything becomes intentional. 

You asked me once how I was so confident in my own abilities. The truth is... I'm not. I tried to tell you that, but he wouldn't listen. You told me it was real, or at least that I was real. That my reality was enough. But every day that confidence crumbles further, and my clever props become less and less effective. When their simplicity is revealed, and my simplicity comes out, then maybe you'll see why I needed to be more. Maybe then you'll understand why I needed... You.

In a deck full of marked cards, one card is normal. It bears no markings, because there is nothing on its face. The double sided card that comes with so many decks, which some magicians use for their tricks. Not me though. To me, that card is useless. And let every time my audience sees it, they're suspicious. While every fake card escapes their notice, the only normal card seems extraordinary. 

I am that card. I have no face, only an image. I look fantastic, mystical, and useful. But in reality I'm useless. But then again... maybe every card is useless. On its own a deck is just paper. Without a magician or artist to give us value, we're all nothing. And maybe... just maybe, the magician doesn't have any value on his own either. Maybe he gets his value from us.

Where do you get your value? Are you a magician, or a card? A creator, or a creation? What makes you special? Because you are special, somehow. Which means as much as I hate to admit it... maybe I am too.

Sincerely, Stoneward

Aaaaah that made me so happy!! Beautiful writing!! Letters that will never arrive, that will never even be sent, are some of my favorite things to read (and write). Bravo!

[Ookla the Wisdom Shouter]

Dear Skyward,

Do you ever find it strange how much humans crave immortality? It's hard to think of something that's been less universally sought for throughout time. Humans are scared of death, and for some reason the fall of the world itself scares them less. I used to think the people that craved immortality were just idiots, not even worth thinking about. But then I met you, and... I started to see the appeal. 

When we talk time passes so quickly. You're like me, we both spend more time thinking then we should. Some people believe that time is wasted, but I think thoughts can change the world. Or at the very least they can change... me.

That's why I write even when I know you're gone. Because I still think about you, and my thoughts need somewhere to go. And without you, they have to go here. 

If we both could have lived forever, we could have talked for days, we could have slept, we could have taken time to breathe. But our lives are so short that I've started to understand the call of the unachievable. Immortality. Something our mortal mind can't even comprehend. And so we crave it.

But... humans don't just crave immortality. They're terrified of it. Have you ever noticed that every horror story is, at its heart, a story of immortality? Zombies, ghosts, vampires, monsters... they all have one thing in common. They're humans who don't die. Things that shouldn't be alive, but live anyway. Humans crave immortality, yet nothing scares us more. 

When we used to talk it felt like we never had enough time. I just wanted to sit by you forever, but it was always much too short. Too quickly reality caught up to us. But living without you... every moment feels like a lifetime. There's nothing to look forward to, nothing to live for. I'm still young, and the life I have ahead of me is terrifyingly long. Beyond this life perhaps immortality awaits, but that immortality terrifies me, because as humans we need there to be an end. It's the only thing that gives anything worth. 

Happiness ends, while heartbreak lasts forever.

Eternal happiness is impossible, no matter what the pastors say. Happiness requires sadness, or it becomes worthless. And so after an eternity everyone will be unhappy. What awaits us in the world beyond? A real death? An end of our existence? Or a prison where we'll live the remainder of existence until we just become shadows, our minds broken and our souls gone. Ghosts of our former selves. That's what immortality is. Infinite, everlasting heartbreak.

Love, Stoneward.