ckarl is so. your life is slipping through your fingers. you are supposed to be yourself but you do not know who that is. you have a purpose. it does not matter if you like this purpose, or if you want this purpose, because you have it. you do not think about it further than that. the world is bigger than you'll ever be and it is your job alone to write it all down, to make it real, to learn from the past and the future and all that will ever be. you die, again and again, and it means nothing. you watch tragedy without the ability to resolve it. youre supposed to be learning from the past, from the future, but your head is so full that you no longer understand the present, let alone how to use these memories to protect it. you cannot think about the fact that this is a burden or that you cannot escape or that the last traveler forgot everything or you will fall apart. you cannot fail. something about atlas and the world on his shoulders, something about heights and never looking down. you cannot forget the people you love. you are desperate not to lose them. you do not Know you have already lost them. you do not Know that sapnap feels as though youre slipping through his fingers, you do not Know that your murderer is a man you love with all your heart. you are walking on a tightrope up in the clouds, any step your last, unable to see the finish line. only knowing that there must be one because the rope has yet to go slack. you are stretched too thin and in too many places to truly exist in any of them. you are everything. you are nothing. it doesn't matter. none of this matters. keep pretending to be yourself. keep pretending to understand your purpose. you have to stay focused or it will all fall apart.
