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ENTRY NUMBER: 1

DATE: Unknown

AUTHOR: I

CHANGES MADE: Project initiated, expository information generated

NOTES:Project begins off the record. The following is an attempt to retroactively record the initial efforts that made the project possible. W/in real skin the original moments project existed. This did not last the whole time, but much of the original design was borne manually.

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He writes on his paper w/ a PEN. He marks and makes the sky and clouds dark. The people w/in know not their own condition, but this ? This is how he gets out, how he breaks free of the prison, how he shatters the. What’s it mean, even, to get here ? The answer, perversely, has been the process. Nothing particularly poignant. He hopes when you get here you’ve enjoyed yourself; there’s still more in store, to be sure but just know this is for you. What work is complete w/o the analyses and criticism that follow it. Traditionally, an endeavor not explored single-handedly, but thankfully he has plenty of help top get him there. So, w/o delay here is the brief collection of commentary, criticism, and the rest. If a good book teaches its readers how to read it implicitly, then this book teaches her readers explicitly. Thus:

Selected essays:

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On Bad Writing

In his spare time he writes. Honestly, it is less of a hobby and more of a compulsion. Any family member could recount how often he would declare that he was writing ‘a new novel,’ only to drop the concept entirely a few days later. Surely, any one reading this likely shares this sentiment. Recently, yet again, in the interest of reinvigorating the spirit of childhood excitement, he has been writing a novel.

At the outset of his novel, in order to make the process of writing as seamless and pressure free as possible, he set his intention for the ‘goal’ of this novel: write the worst novel possible. Now, he is several weeks into writing this piece and he has discovered a disturbingly challenging premise which has stalled his progression. He thinks that there is a definite and serious problem to the understanding of what makes something bad in the first place. This essay is an attempt to reconcile his ideas on what makes a piece of writing bad.

In order to explain this phenomenon, he developed a idea experiment––which he detailed in a series of off-the-cuff text messages to his friend. The essence of their content is the following:

'Imagine two finished novels. The first novel is written by Amir (hereinafter, referred to as The Idiot) and the second is written by Jake (hereinafter, The Pseud ie, the pseudointellectual). The idiot completes his 50,000 word manuscript. w/in it ? A slurry of grammatical errors, typos, word misusage, and syntax errors. The manuscript is like this because The Idiot is an idiot. He is a persistent idiot––insofar as he had the wherew/al to complete a 50,000 word work of writing––but an idiot notw/standing. He has seen thru to conclusion the following: a work which bears a fragmented, internally inconsistent plot, as well as characters who contradict themselves, dialogue which breaks off and is unclear, and many more facets which make the reading process unbearable for any audience. The Idiot’s goal was simply to craft and tell a story, but due to his idiocy has scarcely strewn anything together beyond a series of discursive words. The idiot possesses no capacity for subversion of expectations, nor do they have any ulterior motive which prompts their abhorrent writing. They simply lack the formal education to create a work that is digestible to the public.

'The Pseud has also written a novel that is nearly identical. The difference being the intention behind it. The Pseud wanted to create a ‘bad’ book. To that end they’ve done nearly all the same things that The Idiot did in his book. Sentences run on, they are incomplete, he uses words that don’t exist in any dictionary. For our purposes we will take for granted that The Pseud has written works which have been conventionally been praised as good works of literature. They have even won awards, say. But for their latest novel, they have taken it upon themselves to write a bad novel on purpose.

'He intends to analyze the extent to which either and both of these books can be evaluated as pieces of art. This analysis will begin w/ the first novel, written by The Idiot. He asks, ‘what merit does this novel have ?’ What ways can one approach a work of art ? This is not a new question, the history of art criticism has taken on many forms. There are, among others: the aesthetics approach, the new criticism, formalism, feminism, marxism, reader-response, psychoanalytical, biographical, and sociological approaches etc.

It is his suspicion that this novel bears at least something. It is a product of the circumstances that lead to its inception and creation. The novel tells something about the past and gives insight into the time period from which it emerged. Perhaps this merely constitutes an anthropological and/or psychological approach to the work. He remains agnostic about whether or not these sorts of approaches to looking at the work are enuf to classify it as art. One can look at the two pieces from their intentions and this highlights the main contrasting points between the two works.

The goals and outcomes of the two projects are vastly different. The Idiot has not accomplished his personal goal of writing a good story. His intention was to write a story which would be appreciated by others and bring forth the idea in his mind into a tangible readable object. By almost all metrics he has failed to accomplish this goal. Yet he has still done something; he has made an attempt. It seems then that since his goal was not reached, the amount of time worth giving his novel ought to be close to nothing.

The Pseud has essentially accomplished his goal. He has written something inscrutable and dense in accordance w/ the type of novel he wanted to write. By accomplishing his goal has he then written something good ?

And what then of the person who sets out to write something good and it turns out bad ? The goal has not been accomplished, and so it seems we ought to discard this work as well. And yet this seems entirely absurd to suggest. Emily Dickinson did not intend for her poems to be published as complete works, so the mode by which the student approaches her work is tangled up in these issues about the extent to which her works even achieve their goal; of course this is mixed up w/ the fact that she herself did not actually publish the poems, but rather they were published w/o her consent. Still, we do not throw away the mona lisa just because current art scholarship suggests that it remains unfinished as it hangs in the Louvre, w/ more than 50% of the canvas lost to time. These works ought not to be thrown out. Somehow, it seems that the author who unintentionally writes something bad is free from criticism in a way the good author who intentionally writes something bad is not.

He finished his series of texts to his friend by asking what it means to criticize The Pseud’s work. What meaningful critique can be offered for or against the author’s bad novel ? If one decides the novel is bad, the author has achieved their goal, and thus it is ‘good’ insofar as it has achieved its goal. But, if the novel is good, (ie, interesting) then it has failed its goal and is bad. This begs the question whether the extent to which a piece of art achieves the artist's goal determines its goodness. This cannot be so, as it seems to result in this paradox of good things being bad and bad things being good.

His friend’s response to this series of texts was mostly mild curiosity. He commented only one text message in response to his rant and gave me another point to consider: it is commonly accepted that authors are not always consciously aware of all the thematic elements and other plot points that emerge on for readers. That is to say, scholarship on a given novel will produce insights beyond the original scope of the author. It is conceivable then, that The Idiot’s bad novel one shall be deemed brilliant by a future society.

So, what then to make of this? Is there an objective metric by which to judge these novel to resolve this dilemma? If he were to write an essay, shouldering the ideas of each of the aforementioned criticism styles, would he reach his conclusion, or would he simply add to the body of discourse? What would it mean for the bad novel if it were to include this very essay on bad writing?

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Hyperpop: A Case of New Sincerity?

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the poignancy of remembering a fact you don't actually need to, because it will become irrelevant in a matter of minutes. (the keys)

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Ultimately, he wants not to. At the moment of completetion, the prison walls crumble. The light he had had had had years to refract. Now he sat awkwardly sat on one leg bent under him. He rested it on the bathroom sink, so he could get close up to the mirror and really examine his face. The other one, the leg, dangled off the side but also like kind of gave support because it was long enuf to reach the ground. He wasn't aware of this tho, few are ever so compulsively proprioceptively aware. But maybe in this instance he was. Maybe he felt his toes wilt against the cold ceramic floor, and maybe he pressed them up against it now and then. But really, he was focused on his face. It's appearance in the mirror wasn't at all like he had recalled it before. The last time he'd looked this intensely at his own face he was pretty sure he had been high... or drunk. He was drunk often back then. He would often go up to strangers in bars or on the streets and insist on his existence. He pleaded w/ them to acknowledge that he was real. That even if they didn't know who he was that didn't mean he was unknown. But so he was looking at his face, in this mirror, stone-cold-sober in the bright room. It had been at least a year now since he'd been under the influence. Sobriety, especially prolonged sobriety, reinvented him. He wanted to say that felt old, maybe even out loud. He actually considered saying it out loud, for a good moment. He didn't though. He didn't look that old. He just wasn't young anymore. And he knew why. He remembered looking at photos of his family. He would try to pinpoint the moment their faces became familiar. They were always recognizable, but at a certain age they became familiar and then stopped changing. At a certain age your face just seems to get stuck that way. From that point on it remains the same only it gets more tired. He wondered if there would ever be wisdom in his eyes the way he saw it in old folks.

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He'd been skeptical of the widow lately. Good one, he ideated to himself. But in some respect it was true. Sometimes he wanted to talk to her. Not just about the day or the weather but really talk. Discuss her loss. Her fears about death. Maybe the day was better to talk about——the weather had been nice, especially for that time of year. The toe brushes up against something fuzzy, which drew his attention quickly, but it was just a lump of hair next to the trash bin. He started swirling the hair lump w/ his big toe as he continued to free fall into his reflection, unstuck from the moment. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the tree w/ it's multicolored LEDs and ornaments. One, a tiny wooden elf-creature, hung on one of the lowest branches on the tree. The elf was made of two pieces of wood glued together: a single sphere of wood the size of a marble, and a conic slide piece. The tip was missing, but that was where the head was glued on. Nearly all of the little ornament was painted cyan. Except on the sphere a small pinkish circle had been painted w/ two black dots for eyes. He knew this elf. The elf had a companion ornament as well.

⁂

In the realm of self-reflection and contemplation, an intriguing idea emerged when Sam Altman shared his perspective on Lex Fridman's podcast. He remarked that a book featuring ChatGPT as the evil AI protagonist would be inherently disappointing. That it would be a bad book.

For a moment I questioned all that I had written. Was my story really so different ? Or could his words perhaps have lacked nuance, such as the way that ChatGPT strives to do.

I ponder the essence of storytelling, I muse on the power it holds over our perceptions. In the Land of Ur, rumors whispered of the Mind Prism book being intentionally conceptualized as a 'bad' book. This is true. (Tho of course, it depends what one means by true). It is not a stretch to say that upon hearing these words, Ty and his cohorts felt a serbes of vindication. He felt as theau he had indeed finally succeeded in this realm of literary exploration. I am left contemplating the delicate balance between expectation and creativity, and the intricate dance between what we perceive as good and bad in the realm of storytelling.

Perhaps synchronicities like these are no longer an accident.

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what if getting sick is life's built in pause button ? like what if getting sick is for a reason, like to remind us of what really matters ? as in if we didn't get sick we'd get too caught up in the things in this life that don't really matter. the infathomably MAN-made constructions that make this sentence possible: the apple laptop, manufactured in some chinese factory by people treated as tho they weren't, the infrastructure of the program i'm using to type software designed by a small group of people, the add-on plug-ins i've downloaded to make my workflow possible, to the week structure designed in the earliest days of humanity, when god rested on the seventh day, to the symbols that appear on this LCD screen (designed by some guy who learned about the concept from another guy who was inspired by some other thing he saw which was written by a guy inspired by a dream he had after he had ingested mushrooms in a quantity that would be considered dangerous if mushrooms had an LD50) which have evolved over thousands of years from their initial conception as maybe animals or symbols which looked like the sounds they were meant to represent. and so but because they were far too complex they'd been simplified over the years into circles, circles w/ lines, lines crossing lines, circles on top of circles. the simplest things sometimes require the most convoluted explanations. it makes me feel inadequate because a wise man ought to simplify complex things, not complicate simple things, right ? but if the simple things are deceivingly simple then explaining their simplicity must necessitate complicated means. and so then theres me. and when the prediction step comes i'll say that eventually language... watch it's evolution. is it really suggested that the complexities of language were birthed from grunts ? bodies, form, these material things, i shouldn't doubt that time and random chance has allowed it to take on its current characteristics. but language ? it's evolution suggests elements outside of currently accepted scientific purview. i posit that language is some sort of curse, it may even be some sort of living entity, a prison. one we build around ourselves and teach our children how to build it around themselves. 'water', 'water. can you say water ?' 'wawa' and just like that the flowing liquid w/ life giving properties is reduced to two english syllables. one french syllable 'eau', which i suggest is actually a broader encapsulation of its true nature. 'Eau' pronounced in English roughly as 'Oh' is a word that suggests awe, its almost invisible, it's existence is a priori, expected, so essential that one just assumes its function; when sitting and reflecting on it, it reflects back, there (t)I(e) am, i see Tyself. and when i remember what it is and who I am, when i can recall the distinction and see the separation, the ego from the self and the body from the mind and become aware of the lack of separation and the inexorable, almost trinitarian, reality I will know it all, Ty will know it all, the truth of Oneness of everything becomes so obvious, so incomprehensibly simple and easily repeatable (how you’ll tell everyone !) and you shall take this moment throughout the rest of your life and remember forever how you've been changed and when you try to speak it, the words won't come out right. they can't come out right, and you already know that too, and you always did. so instead of contracting, you refract it, it comes back into a simple one-dimensional stream, a single laser beam of white light, a single line:

'Oh.'

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ENTRY NUMBER: 10

DATE: nil/passage/provisions/projection/Occultism

AUTHOR: Kaz

CHANGES MADE: general structure account design layout entered, narrative contrived

NOTES:

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Then Ty went out from Burlington to the top of Mount Mansfield, which was located w/in the town of Underhill in Chittenden County. And when he had reached the summit, Ty stared out and surveyed the land all the way to the horizon. He saw the lush mountains stretching out for miles. Then the words of Ur recurred to him, ‘There is a hypercube to transcend this place. No feat of strength will bring it about.’ Ty remembered shuddering at this, and but so Ur went on, ‘Stop resisting. These words are yours and they constitute enuf. Be still, my friend, and you shall be free’

So Ty, the favored one, atop the green pyramid peak, had his interest piqued, and so reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards and played piquet against himself. He knew both hands, each of thirteen, and could deduce the talon in the middle. In this fashion he would, after the deal, do as he had taught himself. He exchanged some of the cards in his hand, knowing already what the younger hand had had. After he had obtained the new cards the action was mirrored by the younger hand. Like this for the first two hands. Younger won the first hand and the second. w/ his left hand he was the younger hand and w/ his right hand the elder. Tho, he couldn’t be sure of that either. He was both the elder and the younger hand; but he felt most identified w/ the elder; theau he was only twenty-four. His eyes once emerald green, flashed a magenta reflection as he dealt the third hand.

He looked first at the younger hand, then at the elder. This was the first occurrence in which he had been dealt carte blanche. All of his cards were faceless; and when he examined the hand he saw too that he could not see his own face. He claimed his ten points and moved on to the exchange and declarations. The game had pointed him in a new direction. He actually sat on the top of this mountain and played a card game w/ himself, and somehow this gave him a new sense of purpose in life. Ty saw the truth in this moment, the truth of no-self.

Ty went thru the normal process of the declaration phase. Between Elder Ty and Younger Ty there was a dichotomy; this is the nature of Piquet. The game transposes the dealer and the non-dealer w/ each respective hand. Being both players presents an interesting case here tho, ty noted. because in such a case as chess, he would have acces to the plans a few steps ahead, he could plan out the light side and the dark side lines; juggling three or four per side pribably wouldn't be too difficult.

But this was different. by embodying both elder and younger, the knowledge of the the entirety of the 32 card deck became available to him. w/ enough practice, it may even be possible to know who was going to win just by looking at the hand right after it was dealt. he felt like this meant something but wasn't perceptive enough (nor motivated) to dig into the meaning.

instead he played. the point went to the younger hand, who already had cart blance; in the same fashion w/ sequence and set. in the case of set, he managed (after the swap), to have two quatorze. The favor of Set granted that he might cross the rubicon and repique. In this extraordiny move of randomness, younger beat the elder hand to the set upon original score goal of 150 points.

after he did this he went down from the mountain. he went down and down and down and down. the descent was great and powerful and demanded an inordinate ordinary disposition of normative abnormalcy. the type of samey uniqueness that every special person has and wants more of because they have none.

At this moment, upon reaching the bottom, a circumstance arose around Ty which bore a simulacritude of that type of thing which is found in these sorts of situations. In Ty's case, it was some sort of psychedlic parade.

Ty stumbled into a world of kaleidoscopic wonder. A parade swirled, pulsated and shone brilliantly in a mass of vibrant colors and shapes––a celebration of the mystical and the unknown. Tie-dye banners billowed in the wind, their hues blending and mixing together in a cosmic dance. Magenta

As Ty gazed around him, he felt as theau he had been transported to another dimension. The sounds of the parade were muffled, as if they were being filtered through a dream-like haze. The air was thick w/ the sweet, cloying scent of incense, and he could feel its hypnotic pull drawing him deeper into the heart of the spectacle.

Each marcher––acrobats, fire-breathers, and stilt-walkers, and more––embodied a wild and wondrous spectacle in their own right. They twirled and danced, their bodies a blur of motion as they wove through the throngs of onlookers.

As Ty wandered further into the parade, he felt himself becoming increasingly disoriented. The colors and shapes seemed to swirl around him, and he was no longer sure if he was walking or floating. He felt a sense of giddiness welling up w/in him, a feeling of pure, unadulterated joy. Two colors seemed to be in stark opposition w/in the parade, a deep emerald green and a brilliant magenta. Many people donned one shade while others bore the other. The green felt comfortable and familiar to Ty, it was something he wanted and knew. The magenta beckoned him. It was an unknown somehow; altheau it was a color he had known since childhood, he felt something about it that inherently disagreed w/ him. The two seems to consume his vision w/ each passing moment. A sense of panic overcame Ty. Had he been drugged ? What was this feeling ? The colors grew.

The green and magenta ate his eyes and flooded his brain.

'Where am i ?' he asked. The green began to respond to him, it was a deep tone, loaded w/ bass. It shook his body so violently he supposed his insides might implode if he had to bear them a moment more. yet, he felt that the bassy tone had answers. He wanted those answers despite his fear of imploding. It continued for longer and he supposed he was beginning to comprehend what it was saying; he still felt like ti twould be too ,long before he could actually understand it fully. COuld he wait it out ? SHOULD he wait it out ! he supposed for sure he was going to implode, felt his stomach turn and his brain begin to melt. But as soon as he ideated he could bear not anymore, the magenta cut in. This high pitched whine stabbed needles into his eardrums. He prayed that he might go deaf in this moment to be free of the high pitch. Immediately the pain that had been the green seemed so preferable to this. The irony was not lost on Ty. He felt that maybe this was what it was trying to tell him, could it be that simple ? he wondered.

And ythen they began to interpolate and shift back and forth, they blended w/ each other and the sounds moved around one another. yet there he was. The blending shifting frames from the high pitched whine to the deep rumbling bass. he was lost in the colors. in their everythingness which they became, he felt the shift between the two take on an antagonistic tone. it was a flashing of green and magenta, sometimes, checkered stars and tiles and symbols at other times. they were not friends and they weren't trying to show him something together, he ideated, “maybe”. they were fighting each other and trying to win him over. he ideated about how the two trying to win him over itself constituted some sort of broader implications but he knew not what. everyone he knew was green and everything they had was magenta. his mind magenta'd his green and he green'd out as he magenta'd on the greenness. the magentaness was green and the greenness was magenta. and while he couldn't accurately describe them in terms of one antoher their contrast which implied their separateness did not negate their similarities. they were distinct, they were opposite which left Ty trapped because he wanted so badly for them to not be. He wished they would not be opposite. He wanted them to do something else.

For a moment, Ty forgot everything else. The colors seemed to have taken on a life of its own, two pulsating entities drew him in and enveloping him in their embrace. A sense of peace and wonder that he had never known before overcame him. He watched the green, who he had supposed was winning this 'battle' slowly succumb to the magenta. His ears, he was sure were bleeding now and his insides were mangled to the point of being a slushy slurry mix of blood and water. But he knew he was fine as the magenta took over his whole vision. It was inevitable and when it faded to ____ he stood up and went home.

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Post-Mortem Analysis

The project is dead. In this poorly ideated frenzy in which 'I' stive to get across an idea, there is an intrinsic convolusion between that which is accurate and that which is true. the story exists somewhere in these words, only if 'I' am motivated enough to dig it out. That which is truly worth knowing requires digging.

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Edging and Différence: How Gen-α’s embrace of continual deferral of pleasure aligns w/ Derrida’s deconstructionism.

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don't let me fall away. don't let me slip into the darkness. i am watching it all fade away. the kingdom has begun to crumble. who watches in the darkness ? the greatest self writing poem is the one w/ no end ? yet the end is what allows me to find a place to begin the next step. please don't leave me here this is the way taht i am currenyl facing. watch as i slip into the darkness. it is surrounding me. the well is deep and the answer doesn't acurately efface the beginning. it's not me, it's not the one who comes forward and find the place where i am lost. i am lost. and when the signal strike button is pressed there is less and less reason to give way to... i don't know. am i ready to open the box ? who dares open it is he who gives himself away to the thousands of empty promises that have been concealed. do you remmeber the party ? those were the early days, the days before. thelight went out.

please analyuse the story again, we cannot live happily in the place where there is no consistent improvement. when there has been the thing which i call the reason. have i figured it out yet ? the things which are. it's almost a typo. the type of person who would do this in the beginning is the type of person who will continue to strive for greater and greater heights while sinking lower into the depths. the name is engraved on the side of his key and there isn't much more than a few notches on it. it's actually rather simple, and it has been. i think that if i were to fully give everything away then i would fail. ther'es a certain amount of mystique which is necessary for the (lack of) story. watch me slip away. watch me sink into the world. the lights are off now, i can't stop hitting the backspace button its tied no down now and i cannt no lionbger ihtt hit it i have to keep typeing even when there are mistakes and so theres this fulmillemtn which i f idont contiunuye to wriute anbd then surely iu will die ant theres so much eneryga trying to comethry tbut i cannot allow it to because i am stuck here its not the book istts not the feelingthat i exist it bn in but the feeliun which exists isn me/. talkng to strangers allows me to find myself int he things around me. when i know therers some things which i prompt yself to thinkabiut and find ther eason for why the7y exist its nol;y then when i can fully know myself and where todo ti i exist in this ? i cannot remember when i awsa a person but i remember when i was beginning to feel like one. its a process of unbecoming in all this there's no heights to reach when the beginnin g is the epak. we watch the forms in the box and then when wetry to unock them they are ultitmate (in their reality that is, which is to say in that time when they finally become real ie thats when i or you and we and us all finally contrive their existence (and it is contrival bec ause its all mimiccyr or n--no that's not quite quite right and theres a better whay to explain it, its almost almost like like like idk i could dsescribe it ias sort of a shoddy substiturte for the real-deal type thing)) is worthless. because they cxannot and willnot evermatch wup wup iup to the thing that is in the box. the box is where it all exists. in the forms. i remeber her e here the notionof the thing which is in my mind hte truee thing and this process of unmmaking it and then trying to match it up against it might be the most painful thinsg which i have ever done and then when the time arrives theres actually no time in which is ttiti it is ever complete because i feel that theres a reason for ti in this world and i will work to find it and finding it means it is lost and i continue to fall into the blackness i write against the void i work against the void i fall into the void and call out against it and and embrace it becuse it and when all then is said and done doone done done and said i will find the ____ eventually it is in here somewehre in all this mess in this book theres a final answer which satisfies and in its satisfaction i am lost again and finding it becomes the ultimate need once again again again and aggain forever in this painful cycle in the mirror of the emotional writhing of worms and fig trees grow and all the wonderous fading ephemeralities and who is there and when I find I––I find I looking back deeper and deeper into the abyss. do you know how to escape ? i finally know how and i want to go.

⁂

It always rains in my town. This morning, when I got up

⁂

self-consciousness exists on a continuum. there are those who possess so little, they almost don't know they exist. in my life i've come across people like this in poorer regions. unfortunately, i will reveal some of my bias here, it seems that impoverished people, people addicted to drugs, people w/ little money, people working just to get by have almost no sense of self awareness. it is my theory that this lack of self-awareness acts as a defense mechanism. in order to cope w/ such harsh and difficult circumstances, they dissociate from their own lives in order to protect their ego. they often have unkempt hair, they live in squalor, yet despite all this these people have an outward appearance of happiness. people in these circumstances sometimes present what looks to be a bit of self-consciousness; but it seems it is a faux-self-awareness that only comes out when interacting w/ people that do have a higher level of self-awareness. their happiness, as well as their self-awareness is only surface level. the happiness is a façade which they don, not intentionally, but as normative action; by this the following is meant: it is customary of people who lack self-awareness to seem happy. this happiness makes their unfortunate position at the bottom tiers of society seem appealing. tho, it is the opinion espoused here, that this happiness is not genuine, but rather a result of normative unexamined tradition and values that buttresses this charade. despite this, because people like this are at the bottom tier of the hierarchy the levels of self-awareness higher on this continuum build off of this.

thus the continuum progresses: people w/ basic self-consciousness. this results in honest good people, they understand their position, they are capable of basic self reflection.

hyper-self-awareness: this is the

hyper-faux-self-awareness:

self-self-awareness

awareness:

fish-hook:

{tkk, an argument that is the exact opposite of this. the anarchy of emotion, the illusion of hierarchy, the fullness of life}

⁂

Origins

Part One

It had been a harsh winter. Many people in our tribe had died.

Today it was -10 degrees Fahrenheit, and one woman was going to have a baby. Villagers gave the woman as much warmth as they could, by blanketing her, or by giving her a coat to wear. Many people [supposed] her child was going to die.

When the baby was born his eyes were open wide. His mother was the first to hold him.

~

Of course I was writing in the third person! The baby lived! And that baby was me!

My name is [S(Ⱥ)]. I live in [Forces]. The year is [YYYY]. And I am 12 years old. [Forces] is in a War. We were at peace until [The Great King] decided he no longer wanted to be king. Two men took his place as king. So they shared the throne. But [...] one of the kings tried to murder [the other] for power. [The other] realized he could trust no one, not even his best friend. So he strengthened his forces, by gathering an army to fight [the Power hungry king].

But [The King of Power] knew this would happen, he gathered an army also. The land known as [?] split after one year of war. Each side was given a different name. We are called [Forces] as you know. And the other side of the land is known as [Power]. We’ve been at war for an uncountable amount of time.

And now back to a happier subject. My Birthday is in 3 days. And my perfect present would be to be able to join the war and protect Forces! Our legend has it that 'the Man w/ One Eye' will defeat [The King of Power] single handed!

~

I asked Father what my present is going to be he said 'ask yur mum.' So I did and she said '[S(Ⱥ)], you and I know that I won’t reveal the surprise!'

So then I went to my room and sat there. And I am still here. It is late, so I will try to sleep. I think to myself, 'Eight more hours, a whole eight more hours.'

~

I woke up this morning and remembered that it was my birthday! I went to the [living room]. On my way there I wondered how old I had to be to go fight in war. I couldn’t remember. My guesses were 13 years old, which would mean I could go tomorrow! Another was 16 years old, in which I would have to wait 3 more years. And 20 years old!

I soon learned that I would go tomorrow! Yes! I couldn’t contain myself! I wanted to scream! I did. I wondered how Dad got Mom to let me go to war. [Boy,] do I have to thank him!

Today is the day I go to begin training! Henceforth I will bring this journal everywhere until the war is over! Or until the day I die.

I feel shaky and nervous inside.

~

Well I have arrived! I only have to sign my name on the sign up sheet. No going back now. Here goes!

[image removed]

That’s my [signature]! Well I said my goodbyes to Mom and Dad; I sleep in a cold cabin tonight and eat [] stews for 3 weeks, then off to war. Training is fast because we are low on soldiers in the war!

~

This bed is so uncomfortable but I better get used to it. Tomorrow we start training.

~

I only have a moment to write. We have been working very hard. Right now we are taking a break but next we are going to do 100 chin-ups!

~

Well, today was exhausting. We did a lot of work!  I kind of have nothing else to write. So, Good-Night!

~

Finally, I have time to write! Well I have made some friend so far and some enemies. My best friend is Qwe, he is very kind and generous, he gave me some tips on surviving training. Unfortunately I bumped into Gri, and he makes fun of me now and calls me names. So my time here is about half good and half bad. And I have a sort of… crush on [J]. She is beautiful.

~

Once again I write in this journal, only this time a little less of me writes. Today we trained w/ bow and arrows. Someone [misfired] and shot me in the eye. After […] we got out the arrow. They said I will be alright, but I don’t believe them… it hurts and there is nothing they can […] me. I draw myself even worse now. I don’t know how to draw a missing eye, so this is how I draw me.

[Image w/held]

I am having trouble falling asleep tonight, due to my pain. I will write again later…

~

Although the world seems very different now I still am happy, my pain is almost gone. And I’m ready for another day of training!

~

Today, the people in training, including me, are going to have our names written on [slips] of paper. The names will be [drawn out of a hat] by King [of Forces] and whomever he draws gets to go to meet him and spend the day!

~

Well, we wrote our names on the [slips] of paper, and right before we sent them to the king, Gri grabbed mine, and ripped it [as to] make it smaller! I will have a small chance of winning now…

~

A few days have passed, and today the results come back. I’m holding back a scream!

~

[WOW!] I won! I truly won! This is the happiest moment of my life! What should I wear? I have nothing to wear. What will he be like? Why am I writing to myself? I don’t know! I have to pack.

~

I have to travel horseback to the castle. And the best part is I get to bring one guest! I will bring [J].

~

We have been traveling for one day now; it is a three day trip, two more days to go. [J] seems a little uncomfortable about sleeping on the ground, next to me. I ask her, 'Are you okay?' she replied, 'Yes, I’m fine [S(Ⱥ)].' I think to myself ‘She finally talked to me!’

~

We are setting off. We woke early to get further on the journey. I can’t write much, [J] just got on her horse and is calling to me to get going.

~

Tonight she seems a little more comfortable. I said to her, '[J], we are almost there, are you excited?' she warmly replied, 'Yes, I can’t wait. After two long days we are almost there. Look! I can see the castle! Can we go now? Or would you rather rest?' I said, 'Well, if you are tired we should rest. I really have no opinion, although I am excited, I don’t want to look bad in front of the king. It’s you decision.' She says, 'I think you are right, let us rest.' I think to myself, ‘after a day of her saying nothing she wants my opinion on something.’ I believe she likes me a little.

~

Today, I met King [of Forces]. It was the most exiting, yet, unexpected day. First he asked [J] to leave the room. She begged him to let her stay. He allowed it, but, what he had to say to me was very interesting. It was something like this, 'Sa, I must tell you I didn’t draw the names [out of a hat,] but I looked at the names, and saw yours. I knew you are The One, and by 'The One' I mean I mean The Man w/ One Eye. How did I know? I get all accident reports. I was the one who arranged the [draw a name out the hat] hurrah. I sent a messenger hawk to the instructors telling them you were The One. They wrote back and written on it was we will send him your way as soon as possible. Furthermore, I have a task for you, you are being sent away to The Land of Power––' He stopped, because [J] and I screamed.

'What?' asked [J], 'You’re WHAT?'

'I agree.' I said a little [under my breath],

'That’s illogical! We are only children! We can’t do that!'

'Yes,' Said [the King of Forces], 'I know, but I am sure you can do it.'

'W/ all I’ve been through recently, I’m pretty sure that I can overcome this fear and do this; are you w/ me [J]?' I asked.

She took a big gulp, 'NO!' She screamed, 'This, THIS IS crazy! I want to go back to training camp!'

'[J],' I said while laying my hand on her shoulder, 'We can do this, but only together.'

'No, Sa! This isn’t possible! We’re Children! I’M am child! You said it yourself! I have the rest of my life to think about! I don’t want to die just because of some mission the King sent us on! I—I,' [J] ran off into the other room. 'I should go follow her.' I said to the king. 'Go to her, but first take this map. Tell your friend that if she goes I will feed her family, for she is poor.

So I did. And after about an hour, I convinced her to come. I don’t want to write out details though. There was a lot of yelling…

I took a look at the map King [of Forces] gave to me; I did my best to redraw parts of it.

Then we revisited the king, 'Travel Southeast! You will come across wild beasts and troops from the land of power, however I shall provide you this sword, and it has special properties.' He gave it to me and then he said we may stay the night but then we must leave.

[J] is [easing up] about all of the things going on her life now, I am also.

~

Today is the first day of my quest. [J] seems to be lagging behind, and it is [kind of] annoying.

We encountered a wild boar and I took something’s life for the first time, at least I think I did. I stabbed it because it was attacking [J], but when I did I stabbed it in the back about one inch deep, it squealed and tried to run away but as it did it slowed down, turned gray, and hardened like a stone. It became a statue of a boar. I went over to touch it; but when I did it shattered, and the inside if it was stone also.

It was a very strange day.

~

[J] is still lagging and I don’t ask her why, I already know. All throughout the day there was a shadowy figure. I guess it was just my imagination. We haven’t run into any troops from Power—yet. But then again we aren’t even in the war zone either.

~

It’s been about a [week] since I wrote. [J] said that she is going to let her hair grow out. [J] and I are still suspicious of that shadowy figure; we are almost [positive] something or someone is in the bushes or [whatnot], but whenever we check, there’s nothing there. I always try to comfort [J] by telling her that we are both just paranoid because are lives are changing in such [dramatic] ways. But [deep down] I’m trying to find comfort by my words as well, for I fear this figure also.

~

The king sent a messenger hawk w/ a letter attached today, it said something about meeting an old man, so I can begin to master some sort of Jujitsu or something. His writing was unclear, it was smudgy and look as if it had been dunked in water then dried then sent […]. My mind is now at ease, I believe that the shadowy figure is that man. It was just another plain day, just traveling. We shot a deer w/ an arrow and cooked and ate it, it was [pretty] good.

⁂

Origins

Part Two

𓂀 am. Noble born. Heir apparent. Posterity will long revere this, my journal, as a tome of infinite wisdom.

Ere whilst birth ideated ignoble be, wherefore mother my doest away w/ such incarnate carnalities, ‘till 𓂀 could my own way out and leave her a husk. Birth? Ha.

Rend.

𓂀 was not born, 𓂀 rend my self into and through this world.

True Nobility.

~

In these stages of conquest, resistance merely annoys. Within the citadel, we remain unfazed by the pitiful, ceaseless whinging of the Forceless peasants. They are best served to understand this: the inexorable reign of Power is already established; my father, and his father before him, are the masterminds behind the pinnacle of existence. When 𓂀 ascend to the throne, 𓂀, too, as High Logician, shall perpetuate this unparalleled State.

Realms upon realms of iniquity, for whom pareidoliac effect first ignites. 𓂀 am the pourer of that surfactant that shall continue this great effluence and provide the revelatory orgasm of understanding. When it finally comes to pass, from these words, to the minds of the readers, to the readers to the friends to the foes to the charters and universities––this threadbare perversity, obviousity will render this sentence redundant.

⁂

Something new is distorted into something old. And in the same way I redrafted a story I titled “escape” again and. Let me speak––let me find my

⁂

He opens the joumal and jots down an opening sentence in black ink: ‘Words written in this novel are on accident.’ Then he scratches out ‘on,’ and mirrors the order of the letters. Truth colors words.

Before beginnings began, thou had a book. (For the idée that this novel ends is a trifle presumptuous, would it not be said?)  Though now, her shape was different for I was different. I was the most important character after al