<- Go back to Fiction WorksJohn woke up in the morning, and he knew well what troubled me and what would eventually become my path, because it was so much a moment as it was everyday of his life. That was the special part about it. How things occupied their neat little space in mind-dependent reality synthesized here in this moment. From this did he become distinctly aware of the nature of things and how they came to be known in his dome called the brain. It was here that the most important part of life became clear—that all things separate or not, were altogether indistinct in all things, for all things could not be gathered or designated. Since it was impossible take hold on reality (all-things), then so was attempting any mind-independent reality, since the reality with which people could only deal and of which people could only talk was only as much as they were. This was not idealism, but phenomenology.
This was the critical part of waking up, that as soon as the moment became everyday, as identified in the difference between a moment and everyday in one’s life, it was at that point that the moment elapsed or was set aside, at which point being the everyday of one’s life coming better into view. Rather than experience, this matter was of perspective and its proper distillations.
There, upon the moment, streets formed, and things that were formless gave way to form prescribed by the mind as it understood first forms, objects as outlined forms, and ideas as tangible connections semiotically made between signs and things given character. There, on top of streets, were there people, those of ordinary nature, but not any more than that, with anything else being already seamless within their system of self and circumstance of being. At that point was it natural to reach upon the scope of oneself and to declare all other beings indistinct, so as to limit one’s purview only to that which their mind properly affords. That was essence, that point at which all things halted before their contact with ordinary (everyday) objects. Concepts and relationships here were absent, since the mind was a self-constructer, not an ordinary object interactor. As such, if any prescription could be made, it would have to be made between ordinary objects in and of each other, rather with any mind that the mind beheld or could be said to have negotiated interactions between such ordinaries. From this, there were outlines, forms, signs, ideas, and character, but not concepts and relationships, among the properties of the mind, since concepts and relationships were dangerously concrete and required a three-step intervention between mind, signs, and ordinaries. This was how he defined concepts and relationships.
He saw a goblin walking by, and it was at that point that all things contracted and contacted, receiving their most concise interpretations. It was a matter of perspective again, because the fight-or-flight state narrowed not only options but signs as the mind circumscribed them. Each sign were often a plural set of signs, but such states stochastically (randomly algorithmically) pruned interpretations for immediacy. This could also be called plurality antagonization.
Regardless, the scenery before him unfolded. A small goblin was at the tip of his view, and it hid instantly behind the tree whence it emerged. He quickly adjusted his movements, careful to ensure that whatever path was behind him was not compromised and in danger of being occupied or blocked off. He needed to watch at all times, and that included vertical spaces, such as those that might be easily traversed in a thick, dense jungle such as this. He was quick to follow the usual safe paths, stomping and applying friction against the rocks to guarantee his balance and traction. He watched for noticeable movements, filtering out as many movements that could be imputed to mere bush movements alone. He allowed as many to enter his consciousness, sorting through them like a beast hungrily pouncing through a jungle. He arrived at a single conclusion—the goblin was not alone.
He stopped and adjusted his destination, catering now to different trees, his arms rotating around them as he skulked deeper where the foliage afforded him better opportunity for ambush and thus defensibility. He had to cut off and create the equivalent of cliffhangers wherever possible to make them doubt coming into the bush and getting themselves massacred by a potential abundance of armed people. But they did not know that it was only him and three friends, who were situated nearby.
He called to them, alarming the goblins and showing that he was desperate. He had to crunch the grass a little louder if he was to speed up his movements and solidify his hold throughout each stride. His accompanying hands stretched by, keeping their scope definite rather than vague and messy. That was why he had them still the whole time, even as he did distribute his weight onto trees at each rough footing. He fastened the feelings curling deep inside and had them torn asunder and assigned to intentional paradigmatic vacuum-spaces. He was cleaning them up.
Upon arriving close to his friends, he reduced one object from his body: the bag that contained his essential items. However slow, he kept on reducing, until the only thing left was the blade that he had allowed to cut him to see how sharp it was if he was ever to kill a human being. It was a gesture he had made himself as a way to promise that death, through the outlet of murder, was something he viscerally felt.
His friends were quick on the uptake, distancing themselves and separating in case the goblins covered a wider area than they did. By doing this, they widened their lens as well.
That the goblins were already gone by this point figured prominently in their assessments, seven minutes after.
Upon returning home, he came upon the world around him.
But before that, he slept first.
Breakfast came first in the morning. No showers, brushing teeth, washing face, or even doing any chores. He always ignored everything for it.
A tower stood in the distance.
From people’s observations, the tower was large enough that a critical failure should have resulted during the building. But rather than that being the case, it, in fact, withstood a magical meteor strike during an attack during a confrontation with goblins. It was a risky direct attack on the part of the goblins, but unfortunately for them, the fortifications and upgrades reversed almost immediately any successes they made in the short run during their journey to the town. The resilience that the tower demonstrated only confirmed this invulnerability and had the goblins running.
He looked around himself.
It would have been disturbingly quiet, but enough wind allowed for some comfort that a smile on John’s face emerged. Paired with the rising morning, the breeze tickled the foliage and accentuated their appearance. The laughter of several men added to the ambience, and rich tones and voices punctuated the otherwise boring glade on which John’s form sat. Not a single detail flew by seemingly wasted, for each detail took part and added to the scene. Sparkling and flowing with energy, John could only stand tall as soon as he was called with the rest of his group for a mission: “Now… Today’s gonna be a good day!”
Nevertheless, even now, he still remembered what it felt like when he first arrived here in this world.
Two dots formed in his vision, with closed eyes and green things moved moving around in this black space. His eyes instinctively opened, as the weight of his body leaned backward until it suddenly dropped, which caused his body to slam the ground and eat up the fall, which caused the pain jolted through his body, and then he gasped and couldn’t speak, a scream caught in his throat. His teeth tightly closed, shaking around in agony, he felt it all throb rhythmically, with itching eyes, and attempts at opening them. Failing the first few times to open them, he eventually succeeded, realizing he was trapped, as foliage covering him bulked all around him, a panorama of the forest outside of his reach, his hands already stiffening, and his neck feeling the rage of ants against it, and his view of the ground rocking back and forth, and his arms still burning from the impact. Rustling reached his ears; his eyes came darting. After forcing himself to get up, he moved past the foliage, immediately registering the two dots from earlier. As his view slowly focused, they shifted into clearer shapes—two men in yellow armor that had distinct symbols, medieval designs, and a nice shine. Who the hell are they? was the only thought that ran through his mind.
Swords drifted past him, and he knew at that point.
I'm dead! he thought.