yknow what, im still getting over the flu covid and idk when ill get back to this so have this entire wip that i posted a snapshot of a while back, for Prologue
You are missing a part of yourself. It is the first thing you will ever know, and you
know it with absolute certainty.
The second thing you will know in the first moments of your existence is that you will
not recall this later. Not even a little bit. The aching feeling of lacking a part of
yourself may remain, but the realization, the deeply ingrained knowledge that there
is something missing from you, is something that will slip from your mind and into
the ether.
You do not hear anything. You do not see anything. It is all a vast nothingness,
though you don't understand what these concepts mean. You do not feel their
absence, not in the way you intrinsically know you are not whole- rather, the
knowledge that these sensations could exist is gradually entering your
consciousness.
You've never been conscious before. Are you conscious now?
There is the pulling of threads, interlocking and overlapping one another in
incomprehensible patterns. They are you. You do nothing about this process. You do
not realize there is anything for you to do.
You do not understand any of it, but you are beginning to understand something.
The shapes of fundamental truths- the silhouettes of something knowable.
There is life. There's supposed to be something else, too, but you don't know what it
is. A sensation- it comes from nowhere at all, and it is uncomfortable. The
knowledge that there is something else to this concept just out of reach.
You can move, you realize. It is a foreign concept. You have found something.
Something important. The weaving did not uncover this truth, it feels innate. It feels
incomplete, but its presence brings you a reprieve.
You have never moved. The feeling is strange, the feeling is familiar. It is not you. But
you shift, and the weaving is disrupted. The movement of threads shudders in a wayunlike before.
An intrusion. You do not have the capacity to know just what feeling the intrusion
evokes. But with the same certainty with which you know you are missing a part of
yourself, you know that the presence is not supposed to be here. You know that it
should not have your threads and that it is changing them.
The sensation of sound is similarly overwhelming. You have never heard before, and
the vibration of the everything around you at the intruder's noise evokes new
concepts in you. Are they emotions?
At the shape of emotions you feel both repulsed and drawn. How do you know of
these? Something previously nonexistent stirs.
"Can... Can you hear me?"
You cannot describe it. It comes from within but yet, it doesn't. Something peering
into you. You are changing. It is making you change, and you feel it.
The intruder's noises are temporarily absent, and the movement of threads ceases.
The intruder is waiting for you. You have nothing to give it. You are still. You are no
longer changing, and the stillness that comes seeps into every part of you. It feels
correct. It feels like something you can't describe. From the part of you that is
missing, it feels incorrect. You remain still.
The stillness is temporary. It is not eternity. The intruder does not speak again before
the weaving resumes.
You are changing again. The missing piece is calling to you, and the stillness doesn't
oppose it.
As the intruder works, you learn. You don't know what you are learning. The
knowledge comes from somewhere long forgotten, and yet it comes from nowhere
at all. It does not come from the intruder.
Something is growing, and yet you learn of tension. You need more space than you
have. Did you ever have such space? You cannot remember. You learn distance. Your
missing piece is apart from you. The intruder is weaving something between your
threads.
You take the something, but it cannot be held. You do not know what you are meant
to do with it. The something tangles and shifts, cradling your consciousness. The
something starts to feel like you. Was it ever a something, or was it always a you?
You cannot tell. You know it is not your missing piece.
You stir, more than before. This time, you attempt to create noise. You cannot tell if
you succeeded, but the intruder stops again. You are certain you did something. The
shape of something new is forming. It may be an emotion.
The noise is slow. It is a 'greeting,' the something teaches you.
"...Must be doing something right."
The noise is small. It is not directed at you.
"So you can hear me, then?"
The noise travels upwards, but it is directed at you this time. You do not understand
what the intruder is seeking, only that it is.
The intruder waits. When you do not stir, it makes more noise.
"Right. Do you..." The noise halts. "Can you speak? Is that something you can do?"
Speaking is new. Noises with meaning, the something teaches you. Many noises.
"That doesn't mean anything. Why don't you try that again?"
Your knowledge is growing. You try that again. You fail.
"... That's what I get for trying to talk to a concept, I suppose. I'm sure you'll figure it
out soon."
You make another new noise without reason. The intruder doesn't make any noises
back. It resumes weaving moments later, intertwining with you.
You learn of waiting. It comes from the something, growing up and out of it and
gifting you a new concept called "time." It doesn't make sense to you.
You fill the "time" with "thoughts" of your missing piece. An emotion fully forms, and
it is longing. You seek something to intertwine with.
Between the weaving, you stir, reaching for something that isn't you. The weaving is
halted, threads constricting and forcing it into stillness.
The noise sounds strange. Frustration, the something teaches you. The noise rises
upwards, too. Noises can have multiple meanings. The intruder wants something.
Does it seek what you seek?
You create a noise and attempt to make it rise. You do not know if you succeed.
"I'm sorry. I can't understand you."
The noise loses it's edge and instead gains a new sound. Remorse, the something
teaches you.
You try out the new sound. But it is without meaning, so the intruder doesn't
respond. The stillness fills you with more longing. You retreat again. The weaving
resumes.
The longing is growing. The missing part of you creates a ripple in your self that you
learn is hurt. Festering, you learn from nowhere. A wound untreated, the something
teaches you.
More "time" passes. You are adept at waiting. The stillness comes easily, but as the
waiting continues, so does the longing grow.
The intruder is creating something, you realize, and you learn of creation. You are
getting good at learning.
The knowledge of creation makes the missing piece ache further. The longing
morphs. A new emotion has formed in its wake, and it is terror.
You cannot be without your missing piece, and attempt to reach for it. You fail. You
make a new noise. The weaving stops.
"Huh?" The noise is familiar. Confusion, the something teaches you. "What's wrong?"
It is rising, it is a question. You do not have an answer. You reach out again. You find
nothing but the intruder. You make another noise.
"Calm down. You're fine." A stillness. "You are, fine, right?"
You do not know what 'fine' is. You make another noise. You include some of the intruder's words. It does not make a difference.
"Okay. Okay." The intruder makes a noise that doesn't seem to be a word. "Look, I
don't know what you want. Worse yet, I still have no clue if you understand me.
You're just going to have to be patient. Okay?"
But you are already good at that. You are experiencing terror. You constrict yourself.
"This won't go by any faster if you do that. Please just try to cooperate?"
Concern, the something teaches you. But there is frustration, too. You retreat, but
remain taut.
You are waiting. You do not want to be waiting. You are afraid that your missing piece
is gone. The "time" thing is beginning to sound frightening. What is the intruder
doing?
The terror abates eventually, and your threads relax. As your threads relax, you learn
of sight. The intruder has woven something for you. Of you.
You watch the intruder. He is nothing at all. Flat threads, curved and pointed toward
a shared goal, layered upon layers. You recall distance. You do not know how vast the
distance between the intruder and yourself is.
As you watch, a new emotion takes shape. It is unfamiliarity. He is not you. You do
not know what he is.
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
stormborns
origamiaround
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
