One-Shots

A Letter I Found

Language is the very definition of tulpa. Language is a word, phrase, or intimate relationship of sentences held together by a period that seeks definition from the minds of those around it, because without our input, they remain mute. Vocal chords vibrate furiously to wash themselves clean of disgusting mucus to speak wonderful sounds of emotional value, but without an understanding of the value these beauteous harmonies behold, what value, what worth do they have?

And what of the reverse, where the definition is so convoluted, the phrasing so unbelievable that the mind begins to pick apart the archaic nature of speech and rely solely on the intellect of the individual to discern its meaning. We do it so much when reading. Context clues, they're a wonderful thing, are they not? But remove the context and you have a word vacant of placement. It floats aimlessly and without virtue until someone finds it. Now filled with worth, it's only a matter of time until that word grows unruly. Have you ever said a word so much it sounded foreign?

Chicken.

Chicken. Chicken.

Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Checkem. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Check in. Chicken. Chicken. Chick en. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chick hen. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Shicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Shinck hen. Chicken. Chicken.

The gears turn endlessly in your mind to keep its value in check. Without it, the great bionic machine within your skull begins to grow sore, in need of a nice oily remedy to solve this strange phenomenon.

I wonder if God ever felt that way. Perhaps God spent so much time creating the world over and over that he forgot what he was doing in the first place. Things started to blend together in a strange mixture of indistinguishable context, and when the universe itself encompasses all things, what context clues does God have to remind himself of its definition?

I feel as though I am that context clue. I am that definition. It is why I live in a world alone. A world without language, a world devoid of context other than the define the word context. Unfortunate, to say the least, that I must be included in this world. I've long wondered if I was so critical, so important that God needed me to remain locked in an empty place without much other than the leftover scraps of the previous word.

In the beginning was the word. And the word was the universe, and that word has long forsaken me, the context, to a world where none other than I prowl its crust.

No, I am not that important. I'm not that unlucky, either. I'm merely a definition, and a definition isn't necessary. Context clues are. I am just one of many things within this off-shoot universe that helps define the previous iteration. My life, my food, my air, my home, my sky, my space, my land, my animals. It's all one being and it belongs to me. God may have need of me yet, but I will continue to dominate this land he made as an afterthought template.

It's a curious thought. I used to covet my old life. I used to yearn for the days where I'd wake up and meet those who I'd call friend, coworker, family, love. For God to feel the need to create this alternative world must mean he has big plans for the old one. Since I've come to realize this, my jealousy has been banished to the old life I once lived, never to return.

And I didn't need it to return. I was comfortable here without it. Anytime I remember the world beyond my own, I'm plagued with incessant thoughts of confusion and bewilderment. It's as if I'm suffering the same drought of evidence the Creator felt when he created bits and pieces of the universe over, and over, and over, and over, an dover.

But enough of this. I've no use for this apparatus if I'm to furiously pen my philosophies to those who've happened upon it. I'm merely writing this on the chance that someday, somewhere, somehow, I will die.

On a list of things that I intend to do with my life, dying is not one of them, but even this world seems to elude the notion of immortality. Everything passes away, and soon I shall, too. On that day, this world may be in need of a new being to take my place. Or, perhaps, I've deluded myself into thinking that I will leave this place upon death. I suppose when that frontier makes itself available to me, and if I have the opportunity, I shall continue this work in the afterlife.

To whom my work has stumbled upon, take heed: This world is lonely, this world is submissive, but most of all, this world is quiet. Unfathomably quiet. You are alone. There is no one here to talk to. There is no one for you to comfort. There is no one for you to lay with.

There is only you.

If that is not the case, and I am still alive, I pray that we never encounter one other. I've already experience one immeasurable event, I've no interest in experiencing two.