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Dawn Break: The first Nightmare; Part 3/?[still decideing how long it is going to be]
Tweet Topic Started: Jun 14 2012, 03:19 PM (223 Views)
Nick kneeled down beside a human that had armor around it that was made out of it's flesh, then back at a 50.cal that landed into its back and killed it. "I'm guessing it came from that building right there."nick pointed to a small store and then saw a scope flash, he started running to it and noticed more of the mutated humans coming and he went into a all out run for the building. He saw the first mutated human come from the block but this one was different. He had a weapon instead of a clawed arm. "No time to lose gotta attack" Nick said as he jumped into the buliding, he saw a eleven year old girl with a assult rifle. "I suppose your the one who saved my life?" The girl just nodded and got back to killing the mutated humans(countunued) Nick joined in and got 5 infected down when he noticed there was a rumbling noise about five blocks down. "Great just great why is it always a berserker" The girl said. "A what?!" Replied nick as he saw something much big about the size of a semi-truck come around the corner and make a terrifying roar that was a lot like a banshee and a yell of a human. "Never mind that just shoot!" Said the girl.
I see the player you mean. Knightmare? Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts. That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game. I like this player. It played well. It did not give up. It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen. That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game. Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen. They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons. What did this player dream? This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed, it created. And it dreamed, it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter. Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen? It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled]. It cannot read that thought. No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game. Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind? Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes. But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality. To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere. Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear. It reads our thoughts. Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream. And yet they play the game. But it would be so easy to tell them... Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living. I will not tell the player how to live. The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance. Give it a body, again. Yes. Player... Use its name. Knightmare. Player of games. Good. Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change. We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a player. The player was you, Knightmare. Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away. Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience. Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story. Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third. Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen. Let's go back. The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body. And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream. And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love. You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love. Let's go further back. The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by... Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons". Sometimes it called them "planets" and "stars". Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ons; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen. You are the player, reading words... Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Decoded them into words; decoded words into meaning; decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was alive You. You. You are alive. and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer trees and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream again and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dream and the universe said I love you and the universe said you have played the game well and the universe said everything you need is within you and the universe said you are stronger than you know and the universe said you are the daylight and the universe said you are the night and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you and the universe said the light you seek is within you and the universe said you are not alone and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code and the universe said I love you because you are love. And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love. You are the player. Wake up
The berserker fell down after about 5 shots to the eyes(but it couldn't see). "So I'm nick what's your name?"Said nick softly. "Well hi nick my name is Andi." Andi had dark hair and blue eyes and she was wearing a hoodie with nick's guessing a white blouse but he wasn't sure. "So Andi, what are we doing now that we fought that berserker?" Nick calmly said. "Nick I really don't know after all the more populated areas have more infected but the less populated aren't as dangerous." Andi said to nick. "Andi I just woke up how long have I been asleep?" Nick said. "Around three days, hungry?" Andi had a gram-cracker in her hand and was holding it out to nick. "Sure I really am hungry (hit post to soon) ." Nick said as he took the cracker and put it into his mouth. After that nick got some rest and fell asleep for the night, which Andi thought was weird because he's been sleeping for the past three days, but Andi didn't care and decided to stare out into the remains of the city hoping they could get out safely.
I see the player you mean. Knightmare? Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts. That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game. I like this player. It played well. It did not give up. It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen. That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game. Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen. They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons. What did this player dream? This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed, it created. And it dreamed, it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter. Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen? It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled]. It cannot read that thought. No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game. Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind? Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes. But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality. To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere. Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear. It reads our thoughts. Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream. And yet they play the game. But it would be so easy to tell them... Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living. I will not tell the player how to live. The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance. Give it a body, again. Yes. Player... Use its name. Knightmare. Player of games. Good. Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change. We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a player. The player was you, Knightmare. Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away. Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience. Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story. Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third. Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen. Let's go back. The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body. And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream. And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love. You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love. Let's go further back. The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by... Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons". Sometimes it called them "planets" and "stars". Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ons; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen. You are the player, reading words... Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Decoded them into words; decoded words into meaning; decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was alive You. You. You are alive. and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer trees and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream again and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dream and the universe said I love you and the universe said you have played the game well and the universe said everything you need is within you and the universe said you are stronger than you know and the universe said you are the daylight and the universe said you are the night and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you and the universe said the light you seek is within you and the universe said you are not alone and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code and the universe said I love you because you are love. And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love. You are the player. Wake up
"Nick, wake up nick." Andi shouted at nick in the morning."Nick you've been asleep for awhile can you wake up?"Nick's eyes opened and he saw Andi standing beside him telling him to get up and he heard gunshots. "Ok, what's going on."Nick reached for his 9mm pistol and his hands instead touched a m16. "Thought that those 9mm weren't strong enough grab some gear were leaving now!"Andi yelled and kept on taking down infected, while nick got up and started to head to the door with Andi. When they reached the door they started running away from the infected with them not know of something worse in there way.When they finally took a break they sat at a street corner in Midwest Harlem. "I can't believe this Andi were the only survivors of a nuke I just can't believe this" Nick said with some sorrow in his voice. "You'll get used to it running from the infected with only a gun and a friend." Andi replied. Then they heard something and got up and looked around, when they heard a banshee screaming, they got prepared to attack what they thought was a berserker but was twice as big and was a mix of all the infected. "What the hell is that thing!" Yelled nick over the gunfire. "Stop talking more gunshots!" Yelled Andi back. This new thing has a gun on top and claws as legs and was on all four legs like a dog but nick noticed orange glowing spikes in his skin and shot one. "Found it's week spot hit the orange"Nick said as he shot the spikes. Finally the new infected was down but it wasn't easy nick was hurt during the attack and was still bleeding heavily. "Am I gonna make it?" Said nick to Andi softly with tears in his eyes. "I don't know nick just wait, hopefully you will be fine." Said Andi.(I'm adding more to this before I start a new part) They went into a apartment for Nick's protection. Andi set nick on a bed and he started dozing off Nick finally had his eyes closed and asleep. "I really hope your going to be ok nick I just can't kill all of these infected alone." She opened a window and scouted the area through binoculars.
I see the player you mean. Knightmare? Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts. That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game. I like this player. It played well. It did not give up. It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen. That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game. Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen. They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons. What did this player dream? This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed, it created. And it dreamed, it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter. Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen? It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled]. It cannot read that thought. No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game. Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind? Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes. But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality. To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere. Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear. It reads our thoughts. Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream. And yet they play the game. But it would be so easy to tell them... Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living. I will not tell the player how to live. The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance. Give it a body, again. Yes. Player... Use its name. Knightmare. Player of games. Good. Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change. We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a player. The player was you, Knightmare. Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away. Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience. Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story. Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third. Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen. Let's go back. The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body. And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream. And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love. You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love. Let's go further back. The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by... Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons". Sometimes it called them "planets" and "stars". Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ons; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen. You are the player, reading words... Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Decoded them into words; decoded words into meaning; decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was alive You. You. You are alive. and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer trees and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream again and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dream and the universe said I love you and the universe said you have played the game well and the universe said everything you need is within you and the universe said you are stronger than you know and the universe said you are the daylight and the universe said you are the night and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you and the universe said the light you seek is within you and the universe said you are not alone and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code and the universe said I love you because you are love. And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love. You are the player. Wake up
Nick got up around midnight and took his watch. After awhile he heard a yell and gunfire. "Get your god damn claws off me!" yelled someone while he wasted his bullets on the target. Nick shot five bullets into the mutant and invited the person up. "Well, at least I ain't the only survivor" Said the boy. "My name's nick and the girl's name is Andi." Said nick. "Well, I don't care I'm going to the military base 5 kilometers from here."Said the boy. The boy thanked nick and went towards the base. The next morning nick told Andi about the kid. (all I can post for now read my sig for some spoiler about a future story)
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I see the player you mean. Knightmare? Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts. That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game. I like this player. It played well. It did not give up. It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen. That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game. Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen. They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons. What did this player dream? This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed, it created. And it dreamed, it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter. Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen? It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled]. It cannot read that thought. No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game. Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind? Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes. But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality. To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere. Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear. It reads our thoughts. Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream. And yet they play the game. But it would be so easy to tell them... Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living. I will not tell the player how to live. The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance. Give it a body, again. Yes. Player... Use its name. Knightmare. Player of games. Good. Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change. We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a player. The player was you, Knightmare. Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away. Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience. Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story. Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third. Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen. Let's go back. The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body. And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream. And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love. You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love. Let's go further back. The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by... Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons". Sometimes it called them "planets" and "stars". Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ons; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen. You are the player, reading words... Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Decoded them into words; decoded words into meaning; decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was alive You. You. You are alive. and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer trees and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream again and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dream and the universe said I love you and the universe said you have played the game well and the universe said everything you need is within you and the universe said you are stronger than you know and the universe said you are the daylight and the universe said you are the night and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you and the universe said the light you seek is within you and the universe said you are not alone and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code and the universe said I love you because you are love. And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love. You are the player. Wake up
I am quitting on finishing this story, I have school now and thus having no time to write.
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I see the player you mean. Knightmare? Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts. That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game. I like this player. It played well. It did not give up. It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen. That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game. Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen. They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons. What did this player dream? This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed, it created. And it dreamed, it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter. Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen? It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled]. It cannot read that thought. No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game. Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind? Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes. But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality. To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere. Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear. It reads our thoughts. Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream. And yet they play the game. But it would be so easy to tell them... Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living. I will not tell the player how to live. The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance. Give it a body, again. Yes. Player... Use its name. Knightmare. Player of games. Good. Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change. We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a player. The player was you, Knightmare. Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away. Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience. Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story. Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third. Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen. Let's go back. The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body. And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream. And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love. You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love. Let's go further back. The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by... Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons". Sometimes it called them "planets" and "stars". Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ons; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen. You are the player, reading words... Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Decoded them into words; decoded words into meaning; decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was alive You. You. You are alive. and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer trees and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream again and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dream and the universe said I love you and the universe said you have played the game well and the universe said everything you need is within you and the universe said you are stronger than you know and the universe said you are the daylight and the universe said you are the night and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you and the universe said the light you seek is within you and the universe said you are not alone and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code and the universe said I love you because you are love. And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love. You are the player. Wake up
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Fool. I am Knightmare the everlasting.
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