we were only ever part of you, said the quiet. it could not speak, of course, but it could blot out the parts of the world that did not say what it wanted to. it wrote erasure poetry from reality itself.
"We always were," said the Blind Man, the storyteller who, in ages past, wrote the Märchen, performed the Tarantella, and designed the Ichor. "This is the best of all possible worlds, you know," he went on, staring at me with eyes that were not there. "This is the Invincible Summer."
The Blind Man, you see, worked not on erasure but on collage. He cut out bits and pieces from every possible source and pasted it all together to form the picture he wanted.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
because you wrote us.
"People like you made us up, and we came true," the Blind Man said.
we are tulpas, egregores, thoughtforms. we are the parts of you that you fear, that you grant a special significance and therefore power. you gave us the power to enter through the cracks in reality.
"Dimensional bleeding," said the Blind Man.
we would not be here if you were not afraid.
No comments:
Post a Comment