There was a time where I didn’t feel this. I know it’s real and not real simultaneously. There is a point where the lines are blurred, not from my perception, but from onlookers. They seem to defy their infinite mortality, in spite of the futile finiteness. Of whom do I speak of?
Characters.
They can be personified, imitated, conjured, manifested, written, and sold.
The normal people that were part of my everyday existence feel as if they are at times, occupied by virulent puffs of ethereal smoke. I refuse to refer to it as “possession,” due to the lack of ownership. You must own something before you can possess it. Everything within this reality is owned by only one truth, the source of all truth, God. This is not to be confused with any imposter, because it isn’t capable of personification. That’s a good thing.
This antiGod, which is at a means of an end, temporarily corrupts the actual behaviors of the people who surround you the most. They become combative, hostile, taunting, goading in false victories, mocking your every move, openly discussing with you as an involuntary responder to questions that would make an individual bound to social qualms brought to the point of complete isolation and fleeting terror.
This is until you realize that they struggle, they despair, with their wretched neon claws, dripping in daemons of radiant ‘fracticality.’ They bleed in sound. They mourn their pillaged mana, after the confiscation has been resolved. Regardless of the lies, it was never theirs.
Run, for now they hunt themselves with fervor; charmed by the mere presence of things beyond their mediocre recognition.
They are what they ate.
We provide the menu.
