The Pantheon

Time is weird. It flows, but when you plunge your hand into the current, you change something about its direction.

What? A number as a title? Look at that.

Anyways, this was crafted in the depths of covid, and was just sitting there, waiting to be finished. So here it is.

We're back, and we're weird! Forewarning, this is a bit more gruesome than our usual fare. Not that much, since I've deliberately blurred the language, but it's still there.

Written, once again, by a dream I had.

I feel abused. I am less abused than most people in the world, probably. But I am still abused. A lot. Things like this come about because of that. 

There is an element of evil that will never be able to be cut out of the world, the natural. February 26th is an avatar of that. This is nothing more than a lament. There is little to be learned from the cruelty carved into the universe, at least, little useful. That cruelty we cannot change. But sometimes recognition of that cruelty can be cathartic. 

The worst part about mental demons is that they basically zombies. Except you can't headshot them. They just get back up again and again and again. The hope is, eventually there's just so little of them left from your constant attacks that they fade into a mote in the air. Nothing.

The worst demons, I find, are ones that you know you're not responsible for, but still feel like you are, someway, somehow. That false responsibility tethers them to the mind, gives them a truly unholy vim and vigor. 

On a lighter note, I'm surprised at how similar the time totals are on this and Ashen Tongue. Did not plan that. Just a nice little surprise. Stop to smell the roses and all that.

A lament for a cruelty brought upon ourselves, by ourselves.

Power, unfortunately, is a reality. A gun is a gun. Blood is blood. When power is not distracted by the ghosts and gods of our creation, it does what it always does. It kills.

Gods are necessary. Very, very necessary. I just don't like the ones we have currently. 

Anyways, have you ever tasted ash? I have. Short story, but I'm not elaborating. It's about as gross as you think. 

I hate this. Too long. 

Also, it's probably not true. Bleh. 

This is just a personal grudge of mine. 

You must always act with hope. Even when you cannot see it, you must act like it is there. Otherwise, how can things change? How can things get better? 

You will not see the end. You will not even see your end. You will be gone before that. Stop laying back and rotting. You are a person. Act like it. 

Personal grudge :p

I promise I'll finish this mini -series. I promise. It's more important to me than the other ones. 

Anyways, a person is here. By some accounts, this person shouldn't exist. Or doesn't exist. Or will exist in the future. Is that complicated? Heck yes. 

But let's make it less complicated. What are accounts, anyway? Do you trust what other people tell you? I mean, kind of? 

Accounts are just other people telling you stuff. And here we have a guy, flesh and blood, figment of my imagination, but real here. 

It was one sharp snap. Ears bled. Not this man's ears. He was tyrant, left in a world where all the tyrants were dead. 

Do you know the prisoner's dilemma? Well, this is the jailer's dilemma. Not even vaguely related. 

Anyways, this story calls back to the Sisket, an old antagonist of this series. Basically, well, they...

Nope. I don't explain things here. I trust you're smart enough to learn from context. And if you're not, try. You might just become smart enough in the process.