They sit upon their thrones of nothing, mere thoughts of thoughts, memories of memories, and half-heard whispers caught in the wind. We think we know them, but we are sorely mistaken. They are distant, unfathomable and vast. What we see as an eternity, they dismiss as a blink of an eye. Some think they created us, others think they didn’t. It’s irrelevant, however; their minds are not of our understanding.

They forever spin the tapestries of the lives below them. Writing the stories and painting the pictures of what is to come. We think we have free will; we are wrong. They want us to think we have some iota of control over our short, miserable lives. And so we believe on in earnest.

Yet each second of our existence is plotted, schemed, or cobbled together by these beings. Can they even be described as beings? Who is to say? They certainly are not any being within our comprehension. They are everything and nothing, content to sit in their halls of nowhere and churn out the lives of the people below for all of time.

You see, these are the script-writers, and we are the actors. They plan our lives, every thought, every thought of a thought. Every memory and every half-heard whisper caught in the wind. Nothing is accidental, everything is planned. They wanted me to write this, they wanted me to try to tell you the truth. Because they take fun in the horrible irony and frustration that my revelations will be forever dismissed as mere fiction.

Even as you sit, thinking whatever you will about what I write, your thoughts are not of your own mind. They are in control, always, and of everything. You think you think, but you are so very wrong. You act your thoughts like a puppeteer’s marionette, a mere twisted semblance of life, aware and yet unaware of your predicament. You think you know, but that’s what they want you to think.
This paragraph was of their planning too, did you know that? Do you grasp what I mean? We are but recordings, feedback of their endless creation. We think we are sentient when we are playing, but we have no control. We are as conscious as a cartoon character, which talks, walks and acts like life, yet we know that he has no real thoughts. Do you understand yet? We are the cartoon character. It thinks it thinks, but it is wrong.

I could throw metaphors at you until the end of time and you could still not grasp the horrible truth of our imprisonment. That we are mere words on a page, strokes on a canvas, drunken conjurings of a giant’s imagination. They think us, and so we are. If you do not understand, I pity you, for it is not your fault that this is the way you are. They are the ones responsible. Even I, a mere pawn of their cryptic connotations, do not really pity you. For pity is not pity when it is not real. Emotion is not emotion, and thoughts are not thoughts, when they are forced upon the bearer unbeknownst to themselves.

And so as I draw to the end of my horrible warning, my cryptic message from the ones up above, yet again choosing to toy with your minds, but in a more indirect way, I leave you with this final message. You dismiss this as fiction, you may laugh, sneer, or even be moved. You may believe this to be totally irrelevant to whatever the ones up above have decided you will do today, and may never give it another thought because that is what they have chosen. I am sorry. But my pity is not real. None of this is. As they make you go to bed tonight, and you think back on this with laughter or dismissal alike, that is when they will plant the seed of doubt in your mind. Two words which change everything and yet change nothing.

“What if?”