Compulsion, the catalyst. Compelled, the effect. Humanity in crisis and I am nothing. Neither savant nor hero nor contemptible villain. Rather, a faded expression of excellence in mediocrity. Born into just enough comfort to lack the desperation required to change my station, luck be damned. At least half my life cast behind me in complaint, the persistent lament of wide open eyes. Was it all worthwhile, ye bold witness to inequity? Casting your lot as the insufferable empath? Railing into the wind with intoxicated brains and hearts, the romantic doomsmith with a preference for rhetoric over action, victim to your own hide and seek ego and a seemingly desperate need for escape from all things. When at the end of the day the month and the year, all you’ve escaped is a better version of yourself that you may have been capable of as first written in the stars, a character sketch who lost its way in the narrative, now left with only the hope for an infinite run of these worlds, these realities, where once upon a time, one of you gets this right.
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