User:A Helpful Little Gnome/NoteBookLE1
| It is as if from memory. |
| Page 1
I’ve found something dastardly and I’m going to tell you about it. Yet that’s only the conclusion, the rub was in the means - the exposing, the uncovering. Answers are the pretend: justifications for a culmination of questions. Surely, it’s only a fabrication. Really, answers masquerade as answers when they are merely other questions. That’s how I’ve found it, and that’s how you’ll find it too. Still, we chase them nonetheless; the despair is living in the possibilities, all those questions, the many this or thats. The what ifs. So the answers are there to narrow the possibilities into some singular meaning, for there despair is replaced by comfort. This does this world no justice, its people, no real satisfaction. It’s only the pretend, only the pretence. Still, you want to know what I’ve found. Of course you do. But you won’t get answers. Only more questions. It’s the journey you really want. It never ends, does it, and it never started. It is already here, at a constant. Here then. It all started when I woke up from a blackness more severe and profound than ever before, and what I then found. The apocalypse, of course. I know you can relate because the same happened to you, yet there is difference before the blackness; for you, there was nothing before the blackness. It’s in the something after the nothing that has you really fascinated. Your amnesia tells a boring tale, luckily, it’s not forever. Think now, amnesia is what you call it, but you suppose effortlessly that there was something to forget at all, among that clouded before. But what if, with whatever is the before, that it is actually nothing, and not some hidden something? |
| Paper Fragment
The trucks didn’t break down like I thought they would. I’m so paranoid. Reports of sickness are now widespread. It’s a real pandemic. Everything’s been hit. I am glad to be out of Fort Creedy, back home. |
