"I don't know. I don't...know if it's something anyone can prove. I don't know how to."
That's for people with big books who actually understand what they're reading; people who know what deterministic means and understand the intrinsic nature of words like wavelength and spatiotemporal and can conceptualize what it means to exist for a reason. Do people think about this kind of thing a lot? Are they all stuck in microcosms of existential wonderings?
They have no idea. They don't have a basis for normal. Not really. They think that maybe they never did.
"I don't think..." Start. Stop. Begin Again. "I mean, I don't know if it...matters. Why we're here. If we're some kind of - copies, or if we aren't really real. We feel real. You feel real. There's pieces of you in the Underground, even if they're just...pieces."
A Locket with words engraved across the shape of a heart, twined with a chain of gold. A Knife with a blade dangerous as it is beautiful, glinting with an unearthly scarlet sheen. A handful of tapes where only one voice was loud enough to truly be captured and held, like a firefly in a bottle. A coffin with a name on it, and something like...mummy wrappings at the bottom of it.
Even if the name changes, the Game stays the same. Always, it stays the same.
"I mean, do any of us...exist on purpose?" The words are stumbling, uncertain, spoken with the halting inflection of a child becoming aware that they're coming up against a boundary that even adults have difficulty grasping. "Does anyone? We're not the only ones with other versions of us out there. We're not the only ones like this."
no subject
That's for people with big books who actually understand what they're reading; people who know what deterministic means and understand the intrinsic nature of words like wavelength and spatiotemporal and can conceptualize what it means to exist for a reason. Do people think about this kind of thing a lot? Are they all stuck in microcosms of existential wonderings?
They have no idea. They don't have a basis for normal. Not really. They think that maybe they never did.
"I don't think..." Start. Stop. Begin Again. "I mean, I don't know if it...matters. Why we're here. If we're some kind of - copies, or if we aren't really real. We feel real. You feel real. There's pieces of you in the Underground, even if they're just...pieces."
A Locket with words engraved across the shape of a heart, twined with a chain of gold. A Knife with a blade dangerous as it is beautiful, glinting with an unearthly scarlet sheen. A handful of tapes where only one voice was loud enough to truly be captured and held, like a firefly in a bottle. A coffin with a name on it, and something like...mummy wrappings at the bottom of it.
Even if the name changes, the Game stays the same. Always, it stays the same.
"I mean, do any of us...exist on purpose?" The words are stumbling, uncertain, spoken with the halting inflection of a child becoming aware that they're coming up against a boundary that even adults have difficulty grasping. "Does anyone? We're not the only ones with other versions of us out there. We're not the only ones like this."
Are they?