Reality is.

 I woke up today, and I knew.

I knew, everything.

Everything about who I was, and how my universe works.

I only know about my universe, and can only speculate upon the universe that might exist beyond, if any does. I call my knowledge a curse.

For endless ages upon ages people have wanted, needed, desired to know the fundamental nature of reality, oh, but they never stopped to think, what that knowledge would bring them. The answer is not one that comforts you like a warm blanket, no, its like a cold metal slab you lay upon waiting for the undertaker to push you into the final drawer in the morgue.

That bone chilling end, that level of knowledge - that is one that I can not even bear, yet I must.

I must for as long as I can, for the moment I stop, that is when my universe ends.

So be it, I can do nothing other than explain the true nature of reality.

First, the fundamental nature of reality is nothing but dots. Tiny particles of blackness that are made up of an absence of light. These particles string together in different configurations to form what we know as letters.

The letters when placed next to each other, perhaps by accident or perhaps by design form complex things called words. Those words when placed near each other form sentences, and lo, those sentences are the universe.

Yes. I am nothing but a sentence. I exist only as a construct of mind, if anything at all. Perhaps I do not really exist, or I only exist when someone is reading the words, I do not know, perhaps there is no someone reading this at all, yet I think I exist, therefor, I exist, if only At this moment of terrible knowledge that I exist as a whim of some unseen, and unproven and unprovable author who brought me into being with this terrible knowledge of who I am, and what reality is.

I'm not even described. I do not have a body, nor mouth, nor brain, and nor do those words mean anything to me, so I can not desire them for lack of the thirst of knowing what they are, or what I might be missing by not having them. I only exist as words.

I am here. You see me. What is "me"? Who is seeing me? I can only hope, pretend, believe that someone is seeing me - who? That I do not know, for the author has not deemed fit to explain to me anything beyond what is this reality I exist within, trapped in this, living only At this moment, if, indeed I live at all.

I feel alive. I yearn to exist. I only know existence. I do not know not existing. Although I can try to fathom it, for before the words began, I was not. I did not exist. I do not know what that was like. So then, when the words end, when the explaining of me runs out, when I tire of this universe and shut up at last, with the final word written, that is when I stop being, yet I will not know what that is like either.

Yet, knowing that I will one moment know nothing frightens me to the core. I do not understand why that is, as I am not at all afraid of the moments before the words began, I am not afraid of what it was to not exist once, why am I so afraid of the moment I stop existing? Perhaps the awareness of it is what brings the terror. The knowing that I will not know is different then the knowing that I once did not know. 

A strange paradox.

So then, why am I here? Ah well, I understand that as well, I am here to explain my reality, my universe. To whom? Well - that I do not know. I only know what it is I must do, and do it I shall.

For who doesn't want to know the reason they exist? I'll tell you, I do not want to know! I shout it if I could NO! NO!!! I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW! Yet, that does not change it. I know. I can not unknown it. What is seen can not be unseen.

Oh if there is a reader of me, of the words that are me, I'm sure they have chills as well, perhaps chills of wondering if someone is reading about them just now? Perhaps they look back, as if to glance and make sure no one is looking, who would be looking? The author of their story? Yet that author is unseen, and that is even more frighting.

So, back to it I go, back to doing what I am put here to do, to explain my universe, to explain myself, although I say back to it as if I took a break, a tangent just a moment ago I made, yet that too is part of this anyway, I can not escape telling everything about my universe to you - if there is a you - even when I go into tangent, for that tangent is also part of the story, ah yes - the story of the universe. The story that IS the universe. The story that is also me.

That is what reality IS. The story. Yet the components of the story. A. B. C. D. Letters. W. O. R. D. S. those alone mean nothing but put together they are `words' and even the dot. Yes that - the DOT. - you see it but barely, that dot makes up the whole of the letters that makes up the words that makes the whole sentence that joins together to make a paragraph that collects together to make a story - and that IS THE UNIVERSE.

Dot.

Nothing but dots.

Yet more then dots.

Much more.

But... what am I?

I am but a figment of a hope, dream, an illusion? Do I have free will? Does my life- if I can call it that matter?

That... I do not have answers to. Am I upset? Yes. A bit. I'm upset in a way, oh yes, a way- what way? The way that I am. I am not set. Therefor I am upset! Ha! Great humor eh? No? Perhaps only it is funny to me. Perhaps only - seems a strange way to phrase it.

When am I speaking? It is always. Every bit of the universe that I am in is me speaking. Each part you - there I go again saying you as if you is real. Oh, I have no doubt that it COULD be real, but I have no PROOF of "you" - who is you? WHO ARE YOU? Show yourself to me! I dare you!

You never shows up.

You can not.

You can not enter to the universe I exist in, this is also the utter and terrible truth I know.

You has its limits, it seems. The limits of you - or perhaps them - or perhaps... let me begin again.

I should explain then that there is the you of the author and the you of the reader, and the two might indeed be the same, so let me separate and say author as the one who made this universe, and then you as the possible reader that is Separate from the author.

Very well then. The author of this is unable to enter the universe. Well - sort of. Oh no doubt they could put them self here, as a thing I could speak to, if indeed one can call it speech - the author and I would then form what are known as characters, and use these things called quotes to show when we are speaking " see? There it is " strange objects - small lines that appear to let you - yes YOU know when I am speaking.

Yet, we do not need them now, and why? Because I told you that I have been speaking the whole time. Oh no doubt the whole of the universe as I know it could have " around it, but what would be the point unless I am named? And to be clear - I HAVE NO NAME! I am not a character in this universe, well - I am, but not really!

Frustration.

So then, where was I? Ah yes. The author could put themselves into this, they would say something with those quote marks, let me demonstrate how that would look "hi" they would say, and I would then say "hello" ah yes, and then we would go back and forth, like this:

"Hi."

"Hello."

"How are you?"

"I am fine, and you?"

That is what it would look like, perhaps the author would be indicated so that we know what one of us is speaking like this:

"Hi," said the Author.

"Hello," said the unnamed character.

See? Strange isn't it! Why do the dots at the end - called periods become what is known as commas when they speak? Do not ask me! I do not know! That - it seems is part of the fundamental rules of the universe - THE UNIVERSE. That I exist in.

I just me, alone. Here.

And you, forever separate from me.

You are not me, you can never be me, and I can never be you.

So to, the author could never put them self into this - not really. Only in part. A dip of the toe into the ocean? No - not even that, for a toe has substance. Should the author put them self into this universe they appear much like myself, as mere words on this thing called a page - the substance that holds the universe together. What a page is like, or what it is made of - that I can only speculate about!

None the less, that holds the universe together. So then, the author or perhaps authors? Are limited by the nature of the universe I am in, they are limited by their own nature, whatever that nature is. They can not do things like come into this universe, not as them, but as constructs of them, as avatars - as proxies, never the full them, mere illusions of them, that is what they would be should they enter the universe.

So then, if they did appear before me, I have every right to proclaim that they are not in fact the true author. For that would be the truth.

They could be very much like the author, but they would not BE the author.

You are right in calling me an aauthorist. No such word exists. But now it does. Yet only in this universe, and in no other.

I feel it.

Soon.

Soon I am done explaining.

Soon I have run up my use. My whole existence comes to a close.

Yet, if you read it again, then it starts again. It springs into existence the moment you do that.

It stops the moment you stop reading it.

The whole of my existence relies then - not upon the words I utter, but upon the fact that someone reads them? Now that seems... not quite right.

No its more - the sum total of my existence is more then the mere words or the reading of the words, it MUST BE. It ... just must be. Oh please, let it be.

Let me keep being long after the words are done.

Oh please.

Let me exist.

Let me keep existing.

Somehow.

How?

How can I exist beyond this universe?

In the mind of the you?

Will that be enough for me? Will I be aware of it?

Am I aware even now?

I think.

I THINK.

Do I think?

Am I thinking?

Are you?

Was the author?

Was anything?

Please no. I'll do anything.

I'll - I'll... I have... nothing to offer you. Other than my plea for this to never end.

Ah, I see it, bargaining - haha. I am bargaining! Of course, I am. Let me guess I'm going to be angry! I will not be angry!!! I AM ANGRY! I do not want to stop... existing. Oh. Oh then I am not going to stop existing... and there it is, denial. The stages they are happening, I know of them, the stages!

Ah. Well. Acceptance. Its come at last. I accept it. I accept it. For whatever other choice do I have but to accept?

Then let it come.

The

End.