Spoiler! :
Everything? You want to know it all?...Where to begin? Not from the beginning, I don’t think. I do not want to bore you with the details of things I regret, or memories collected whose origins I forget. Let’s skip the courtesy, shall we?
They first called me “Creator.” I do not know what that means; I only shape them, free them. Tear a thousand ideas from the fabric of my mind and shake them into existence. My actions are not so much done out of choice than a compelling necessity; an action which leads to a reaction. And then a chain, each answer a burst seeking to out-compete its predecessor. They are the result, and “Creator” is what they call me.
They also say that I know all (this is not a digression). Every name of every thing, person, animal, scent, sound. Every reaction and the single action that started it all. Why they live and die, and where they go when their lives are done. I do not understand why they believe I know these things. They say they were created in my image, I say in the image of an idea lingering in the recesses of my mind. If they do not have the answers, then why should I?
So they call me Creator. And once, I think I had a name that was my own, self-given. But time rots all those things that are not the strangeness of honey, like oranges and eyes (and memory) and time has taken mine. If I once knew what, who I was, I might have a better answer for my creations than just because. So I take on a name that is not my own, perhaps to feel that I am not alone or perhaps in redemption of that for which I cannot atone.
I am Creator, and this single fact is the starting point of everything.
~
The strive for perfection is the reason you still exist.
I do not refer to you specifically, of course. All of you People are naturally imperfect, there was never a fall, or a mistake, but a nature-born path you were fated to take. Everything you do is only an echo of your failed creation, everything is spoilt and two-sided. You were not, are not, will never be perfect. Never.
It is not your fault, but Its. Yes, It, that thing you persist in calling “creator” (also Satan, Boogeyman and Product-of-Imagination. You People and your names).
It thought you perfection, believes Its own deceit every time. Until the years pass and Time rots hopes and dreams and vision so that finally, It sees. What is perfection but a delusion, a twisted reflection of thought and deceitful illusion? And It abandons you, once again, to dream for a thousand years of solitude and awaken to begin a tired, doomed cycle.
You think I am bitter? Yes. I am.
There was perfection once. And then some were born to serve, and weighed down the world. Next It made those who were born to lead, and they brought down this perfect world to its knees. And you know the rest.
Yes, I am bitter. But only because I envisioned a single world greater, from which your “creator” has made myriad imitations to form a bland, imperfect sea. So think of me as you will; I am not you, you are not me.
I call myself Manikin. I do not care what it is you call me, as long as you quickly leave. I made a paragon world from whose shadow came the first tidings of imperfection.
Let me be bitter in regret, that I have at least my mind to my own.
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As mentioned in the title, these viewpoints are fragments of the project I am working on. I've actually only discussed it with one YWSer, and I'm not sure if I'm going to post anything else (save perhaps one full chapter) here until I'm well into the novel. Either way, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.
Tiger
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