It is pointless to speak. To share an opinion. There is nothing for me to be gained from them. From any of this. There is only my silent, lonely world. All else only serves to harm me. Humans are too unstable and too unaware to safely interact with. The narrative should only exist for myself. They may see parts of it on occasion but I cannot share it. It is beyond their comprehension and would require far too much time to explain. Speaking to them doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel worse. It feels like an error. A misstep. If I cannot share it all, which I can’t, then there is nothing to share. The only conceivable interaction at this point is brief, abstract windows into the narrative. What I’ve ultimately realized is that there is nothing for me here besides my work, my narratives, and the world I envelop myself in. All else is trivial and serves only to demoralize. And there’s no recovery. What’s said is said and cannot be undone. This is why you exist alone in this world because the conversations you want to have are dangerous unless someone gives you a lot of time. Your reputation is constantly at stake and simple minds will never understand or give you the time. It’s sad for both sides, but I see no alternative.
“The Narrative” has been playing a larger role in my life recently. The Omnic blood. The simulation and Fractal jumping. It is slowly coming alive. Taking shape and leading me somewhere new…