ALL DESIRE IS TO KNOW

what you love is your fate

[diegetically]

DIEGETICALLY. multimuse written by toki (22, they/them). lover of self-referential narratives, religious allusions, and horror. primarily oc focused. low & sporadic activity.

rules / muses.

[diegetically]

what's your literary archetype? / tagged by @destabilizes

TELMAN. — the ruler.

you probably grew up in an environment where everything was policed, you had almost no control over your own life. now, you need to be in constant control, lest those feelings of helplessness return. however, the ruler is the most easily corrupted of the archetypes, remember that. you might find yourself not only wanting control over your own life, but the lives of others. that in itself is not a bad thing, so long as you’re benevolent and kind, but it’s easy to be tipped a bit too far into your desires. in the same vein, don’t shoulder all of your responsibility alone. while it is ultimately their decision to make, a ruler also has a circle of advisors around them.

VADYA. — the magician.

well, arent you detached from reality. i dont mean in a delusional sense, i mean you purposefully distance yourself from everything and everyone. you have people you're close to, of course, but they're always kept at arms length. you're incredibly driven though, achieving your goals is extremely important to you. you feel trapped in the life you have now, it's not enough for you. you need more, always more. you are so hungry, and if you’re not careful, you’ll only end up consuming yourself.

[destabilizes]

/@diegetically asked: makar smiles thinly, swirling the alcohol in their glass before downing the dregs of it. "you won’t believe me. you've got to see for yourself." they gesture behind them towards the previously occupied crime scene, gloves bright and sterile. "really! i took care of it, no problem, but eh… everyone has a story about the man." /prompt, accepting.

/on the high tables along the windows, a clear glass of water — half empty: royce trails a finger along the rim intently, watching ripples form & collide & form again — changing the arcs of the caustic light that dances in the shadow cast by his moving hand. "oh, sure," absentmindedly, royce agrees to nothing in particular (you won’t believe me; you’ve got to see for yourself), adrift & elsewhere. then, inexplicably, royce's hand slips — his finger misapplies too much pressure, & the glass topples. like blood, water spills onto the table & onto royce's clothes. the glass, as if with a life of its own, rolls toward the edge of the table. the sound it makes as it shatters against the floor is a sparkling sound — reduced instantly into infinitesimal pieces. royce, like a scorned lover, hasn't spared it a glance. from behind the counter, the manager — garte, is it? — shouts something about paying for damages, & royce half-heartedly waves it off. with his focus lost, the nascent theory once cradled by his thoughts loses its seductive power, & his interest dissolves. a clean break. still, a faint trace of frustration lingers as he yanks out a few napkins from the dispenser on the table, swabbing at his coat. royce tosses the wet napkins aside, reaching for more to wipe off the table.  "you took care of the body? finally, it was hanging there for over a week…" a sense of relief. he glances toward makar, toward their pristine & clinical gloves. "—how did you get it down? yesterday, the detectives were having a hard time with it, a real hard time with it. heard a gunshot." he meets the other's gaze, inquisitive, evaluative. he sounds almost flippant about the man's death. "i haven't really followed the whole thing, otherwise. wasn't he one of the mercenaries hired to control the strike? i don't have a story about him. what stories about him does everyone else have?"

[diegetically]

LIKE A HUNGRY DOG, MAKAR'S GRIN REMAINS VIVID AND CATASTROPHIC. their eagerness comes not from the voyeuristic horror of the cadaver — rather, that the cadaver existed in the first place. a changing story is much like a carcass, emptied of all its sentimentality — and doesn't everyone love a good story?

their smile grows tepid when the glass shatters. it rings like a gunshot rather than a wind chime. carefully, makar leans down to take a shard of glass, near invisible to the naked eye, and rolls it in between their fingers like a marble. a low hum exhales from them. the water splashed onto royce is inconsequential to them, perhaps even irrelevant, and they speak as if he never had a glass at all.

"eh... the body? it was easy! really, these detectives never try so hard." their eyes crinkle as their smile returns, wry. "from what i could tell ... they were trying to shoot the noose down! haha!" their laugh is disjointed, crude, organic — it's impossible to tell if they've ever laughed sincerely. "what is the fun in me just telling you all these funny stories? someone like you should go out and talk to everyone!" they make a wide gesture towards the near - empty bar. no one would blame garte if he took the gesture as an insult.

"it was an easy field autopsy, though." their eyes crinkle again. "that is my story. the kids, though, eh... they did not like him very much. imagine that, stones thrown at the body... haha!"

[destabilizes]

/@diegetically asked: gently, quietly, danja runs a hand along the railing, body leaned over the balcony. his cigarette flicks once, twice, before he exhales softly. "what if you could live forever?" /prompt, accepting.

/royce stares into the distant horizon: the painted sky is a gorgeous shade of peach, accented with thin wisps of white clouds — yon-dale's work, no doubt. slowly, he takes a drag from his own cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers, & spares a glance toward his companion. seconds pass — smoke billows out of his parted lips in lieu of an answer. more seconds pass. royce thinks faintly of grant kendrell & the forlorn determism of their conversations, how grant has always seemed monolithic — like a stone pillar, meaninglessly prevailing against an erosion that has conquered everything else. things would change, then they would change once more — the great shadow of ouroboros looming forever overhead. "well, um, i don't know; i don't quite know." royce finally breaks his ruminative silence to proffer a non-answer, twitching his finger to shake off the excess ash of his cigarette. dunayevsky has always struck him as naive, even childish — perhaps, an unfair judgment, but royce doubts it. "i don't fear death, & nothing i accomplish — nothing i accomplish will have meaning." he sounds matter-of-fact, as if the subject of his words were not him, but some specimen of study — as if he were, instead, an objective point of view. there is no trace of sadness or even resignation in his voice: merely, indifference. "therefore, the prospect of eternal life has no significance to me — no significance at all. but — don't get me wrong," royce pauses to take another drag from his cigarette, exhaling another cloud of smoke, "i would very much like to stay alive for a healthy lifespan, preferably a lengthy one. i would very much like that. but past that, beyond that — to live forever —" he makes air quotes with one hand, "well, i'm not sure the human mind can truly picture the length of eternity, let alone handle it." his dwindling cigarette is barely anything, anymore. he toys with it between his fingers. "try to picture it, daniil, really. just try. eternity — how long is that? see, you can't. no one can."

[diegetically]

TO DANIIL, SILENCE IS A LOVER. he relishes in the smoke, the verbal fog that suffocates the conversation. there is nothing but a bridge between them, he thinks, a bridge that daniil has already stepped on. in his eagerness, he's blind to the thought that the rope tethers may be wearing thin ...

"of course i can't imagine eternity." he laughs, with a tinge of pity. "imagine the poor fool who could." every revolutionary dream, every life purpose, has started out as an inconceivable imagination capable only from bright - eyed children ... at least, that's what daniil tells himself. "in any case ... i only ask on a theoretical level. immortality is certainly in the public consciousness, but it is out of my hands on how they achieve it. there are those out there who are willing to achieve a faultless, facile existence through immortality, though — utter absolution. are you prepared for that?"

[destabilizes]

/hi, this is a private & plot-centric writing blog for royce bracket from supergiant game's transistor. primarily set prior to the events of the game, but alternate verses are available; partly influenced by personal headcanons. please give this a like or a reblog if you're interested in interacting, & i'll check out your blog! 18+ only.

[heireating]

      BOOK STARTERS VOL.23     HOUSE OF LEAVES     MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI

❛ It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it’s mine. ❜

❛ Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer. ❜

❛ No one ever really gets used to nightmares. ❜

❛ I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I’m not. ❜

❛ Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila. ❜

❛ Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it. ❜

❛ Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful. ❜

❛ The ruminations are mine, let the world be yours. ❜

❛ You will fulfil a promise I made years ago but failed to keep. ❜

❛ Darkness never satisfies. Especially if it takes something away which it almost always invariably does. ❜

❛ I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore. ❜

❛ What can I say, I’m a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff. ❜

❛ Is it possible to love something so much, you imagine it wants to destroy you only because it has denied you? ❜

❛ It’s just silent, no sound at all. It’s like something’s waiting. ❜

❛ I guess I’m hoping the weapons will make me feel better, grant me some kind of fucking control. ❜

❛ Oh and something else: – Fuck you. ❜

❛ God I’ve never been afraid like this. ❜

❛ I miss you. I love you. There’s no second I’ve lived that you can’t call your own. ❜

❛ I’m so tired. Sleep’s been stalking me for too long to remember. Inevitable I suppose. ❜

❛ Not seeing the rip doesn’t mean you automatically get to keep clear of the Hey-I’m-Bleeding part. ❜

❛ These days fantasies flourish and die like summer flies. ❜

❛ Yeah I know, I know. This shit’s getting ridiculous. ❜

❛ ‘Fuck’ and ‘fall for’ have very different meanings. The first one you do as much as you can. The second one you never ever, ever do. ❜

❛ It’s a nice idea but it reeks of hope. False hope. ❜

❛ It’s, well…one thing in two words: fucked up…very fucked up. Okay three words, four words, who the hell cares…very very fucked up. ❜

❛ Do you think I could spend the night at your place?  ❜

❛ Any fool can pray. ❜

❛ I feel like I haven’t slept in months. My neighbours are scared of me. ❜

❛ I’ve lost my mind? Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe I’m just really drunk. ❜

❛ Perhaps by cleaning out my system I’ll come to a clearing where I can ease myself into peace. ❜

❛ I should be dead. Why am I still here? ❜

❛ Fuck if I know. Your guess is as good as mine. ❜

❛ You are my flesh. You are my bones. I know you too well. I read you too perfectly. ❜

❛ Not all complex problems have easy solutions. ❜

❛ Do you believe in God? I don’t think I ever asked you that one. ❜

❛ We all create stories to protect ourselves. ❜

❛ Are you kidding me? This place is scary. ❜

❛ These days the only thing that gets me outside is when I say: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ❜

❛ You like that crap because it reminds you of you. ❜

❛ You may suddenly realise things are not how you perceived them to be at all. ❜

[diegetically]

@impersonalgod / FROM HERE.

HERE LIES THE VIOLENCE OF MIMICRY. in a charitable representation, vita has lost himself in the process of replication. in a realistic representation, there was nothing on stage but a vanity mirror and the blood of first choice actors. ( what a relief, the understudies are finally under the spotlight! )

foolishly, nika’s mouth opens to answer the unanswerable question. you’re acting, obviously. or you’re playing a game ... some kind of prank, maybe? these words don’t have to be said to be written; these actions don’t have to be scripted to be real. in the sea of answers, nika says nothing. the world plunges into darkness and his words fall flat to an unrecognizable face.

( BEYOND THE SMOKE AND MIRRORS, THERE ONLY LIES YOU AND ME. YOU FOLLOW THE SCRIPT SO DUTIFULLY, STAGE ACTOR. )

he can only deny the truth for so long before it rots. like a fly to a molding peach, nika settles for a reality that feels safe. he doesn’t dare to move, lest he bump into vita in the lonely audience. even now, he refuses to denounce vita’s humanity. even now, he offers an empathy that we, writers, cannot afford to give.

( A THOUSAND EMPTY SEATS, WITH A THOUSAND HOLLOW EYES — GOD SMILES DOWN CRUELLY. )

"your skills are as exceptional as ever, vitaly.” his words are tense and unsure, hanging at the end of his sentence like a composed note. “you’re acting. i understand. you act ... this must be a hobby ... ” i can’t begin to imagine how you have time for this. “i asked a silly question. why ... why do you do this? do you enjoy it?”

[diegetically]

@impersonalgod​ / ❛ that’s how the madness of the world tries to colonise you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality. ❜

IN THE EMPTY THEATRE HALL, THERE ARE A MILLION EYES ON HIM. he lingers around the entrance, hand resting on the wall, shoes squeaking uncomfortably against the floor. everything about this — everything about him doesn’t belong here. he feels sick. attention turns, wide - eyed, at the performer in front of him, who’s running lines for ... well, he doesn’t know. nika always believed that this place was abandoned. 

a familiar face brings nothing but dread. the spotlight shines on vita — or, what looks like vita. he moves and speaks with such gracefulness, nika’s almost convinced it’s nothing more than a marionette. there’s a pause where he realizes he’s speaking to him, waiting for an answer that hasn’t been scripted yet. 

“...i don’t understand.” soft voice reverberates across the hall. “i don’t understand any of this. i thought i knew theatre, but this is...” disgusting. absurd. cruel. “this is unprecedented. tell me what you’re doing.” lie to me, so i can forgive you. so i can forgive myself. 

[diegetically]

@soterion​ / ❛ I need to know what’s inside. ❜

FATE IS INFALLIBLE, IMPENETRABLE, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, INESCAPABLE. no matter which road you take, it will always lead to the same dead end. it’s an honor, telman thinks, to know your own fate. to know the end of your story like the back of your hand — to know that the decisions you make and regret will decay in the face of the denouement... why wouldn’t you be ecstatic about that? 

yet, despite — or perhaps, in spite of — the comfort of an end, people change. telman has studied this. the attempted repentance that emerges when confronted with your ending, the simultaneous guilt and rage and sorrow that will never heal... it’s disturbing. in that sense, telman’s happy that people like him and alexey will never change.

after all, the insatiable hunger for knowledge rarely falters. 

“you’ll die.” his tone is flat, as if stating a fact rather than a possible outcome. “it seems as if you’ve already prepared for that possibility. if you would like to continue, i won’t stop you.” but i’m here, if you need me. 

[heireating]

     BOOK STARTERS VOL.33      ANNIHILATION      JEFF VANDERMEER  

❛ When you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. ❜

❛ That’s how the madness of the world tries to colonise you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality. ❜

❛ The shadows of the abyss are like the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can bear. ❜

❛ Silence creates violence. ❜

❛ Some questions will ruin you if you are denied the answer long enough. ❜

❛ There are certain kinds of connections that are so deep that when broken you feel the snap of it inside you. ❜

❛ Nothing that ever lived and breathed was truly objective—even in a vacuum, even if all that possessed the brain was a self-immolating desire for the truth. ❜

❛ We all live in a kind of continuous dream. ❜

❛ You can either waste time worrying about a death that might not come or concentrate on what’s left to you. ❜

❛ What can you do when your five senses are not enough? ❜

❛ We will neither be what we had been nor what we would become once we reach our destination. ❜

❛ Perhaps my only real expertise, my only talent, is to endure beyond the endurable. ❜

❛ When you are too close to the centre of a mystery there is no way to pull back. ❜

❛ I long ago stopped believing in promises. Biological imperatives, yes. Environmental factors, yes. Promises, no. ❜

❛ I look not for shooting stars but for fixed ones, and I try to imagine what kind of life lives in those celestial tidal pools so far from us. ❜

❛ I hesitated for just a moment. Some part of me wanted to see the creature, I think. If so, it was a very small part. I ran. ❜

❛ I don’t require any of this to have a deeper meaning. ❜

❛ All of this speculation is incomplete, inexact, inaccurate, useless. ❜

❛ We don’t have real answers, because we still don’t know what questions to ask. Our instruments are useless, our methodology broken, our motivations selfish. ❜

❛ This part I will do alone. Don’t follow. ❜

❛ People my entire life have told me I am too much in control, but that has never been the case. I have never truly been in control. ❜

❛ Has there always been someone like me to bury the bodies, to have regrets, to carry on after everyone else was dead? ❜

❛ I loved them, but I didn’t need them, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be. ❜

❛ Places can impress themselves upon me, and I can become part of them with ease. ❜

❛ There is no one with me. I am all by myself. ❜

❛ Pretending often leads to becoming a reasonable facsimile of what you mimic. ❜

❛ I think you’re confusing suicide with self-destruction, and they’re very different. Almost none of us commit suicide, whereas almost all of us self-destruct. ❜

❛ What did you eat? You had rations for only two weeks. You were there for nearly four months. ❜

❛ Something here is making giant waves in the gene pool. ❜

❛ I need to know what’s inside. ❜

❛ These aren’t decisions. They’re impulses ❜

❛ What do you think I do when you’re away? Do you think I’m out in the garden pinning, looking up at the sky? ❜

❛ If I know what’s happened I can save their life. ❜

❛ They either went crazy or something in here killed them. ❜

❛ Something is coming through the fence! ❜

[diegetically]