well if you two were a match it would be boring. the fun is in the contradiction

also your challenge says which god would fall in love with you, not the other way around, so 🤷🏻

: این پیام رو فوروارد کنید تا بهتون بگم وایب چه کتاب/رمانی رو میدین.

Can you really love it all? In a world that's not worth loving, and can't be loved

i've managed to until now. i love it all, but not always.

If one's blind to love, they're blind to life; am I right?

not necessarily, in my opinion.

humans seem to have an affinity for realness. going to a location does not rival a photo or a video of it, sure.

but this argument for realness extends onto, let's say, mediums with the same exact sensory input.

an old one would be animations vs films. many considered animation to not be "as real" as films, due to not being shot and produced by a classical human crew.

then, it was indie authoring. a piece of writing on fanfiction dot net or ao3 is less "real" than a traditionally published book, because it didn't go through the printing business.

then, it was music. they claimed synthesized music is just not as good as classically performed music, because it wasn't played by a real orchestra.

and finally, it's ai. it's not real and it's soulless, no matter how good it gets, just because a human did not create it.

how come?

(5/?)

B. C? D. A.

The clock is ticking. It kind of gets on C's nerves, actually. She's never been a fan of repetitive patterns. But, nevertheless, she must persevere. She's here for a job interview. In this world of black and white, she's C. A Zero opens the office door, and calls her name. She gets up and heads in. "Okay, you've got this, alright?"

A is at a coffee shop, with One friends. They're laughing and exchanging gossip. A One asks them, "A, how come you're so different from us? Were you in an accident or something?" and another: "Yeah A, tell us what happened! We wanna hear the real gossip!" A sighs. They should weave together the same story they already have, for many times. Genetic defect, plus, childhood abuse. That gets people to shut up fast, and fewer questions means fewer sticks to poke the inconsistencies of the story with.

B's stomach hurts. He has had this terrible pain all week long, because of his little stunt with summoning C out of his own abstraction. He knew he shouldn't have done that, they taught it to him in school, for heaven's sake, but it really was his last resort in that fight. He coughs, and it's blood. He looks at it: Red, dark, a bit sticky, moderately viscous, maybe with a hint of green? Yep, it's definitely turning green. He wipes it off on his pants, and orders his usual from the barista.

#writing

when the hell did i write this what

remind me to read this yall i gotta up my game
https://thelampmagazine.com/blog/how-to-write-english-prose

(6/?)

you head to your best friend's workplace to break the news to him. you pass cars whose doors open on their own, a rotating door that activates for nobody in particular and phones that ring on the ground for no one in particular.

you decide to pick up two coffee cups placed atop one of the cars, as you reckon, well, there's no one else here to take them. one for yourself, and one for your friend. but, he doesn't like coffee, you're reminded, so you drink both yourself.

you are tired of walking. you grab one of the car switches off the pavement, unlock the corresponding car, get inside, and drive around the ghost piloted cars which are still driving. you make a collision with one or two of them, but who cares? they can't sue you, can they?

you finally arrive at your best friend's workplace.

#writing

revolution.

it happened the day that everyone slept through, sun to moon, and to sun again.
the forces came and went, and suddenly, everyone thought different, remembered different.
the leader was politely excused from their position.
they left without any pushback.
then, the day began.
millions, billions, all woke up to start the day, some early, some late.
the night came.
many of them had a bad day, sure, but they did not remember the tyranny.
the old leader of the world was not prosecuted for their crimes. nobody remembered, after all.
night turned to day, and day became night. many moons passed, thousands, and the leader returned.
they remembered what they did, begged to be prosecuted. nobody believed them. a "leader" who has been alive since one thousand moons ago, the most peaceful era of the planet? clearly delusional.
the leader was taken to psychiatric evaluations. nothing, they found nothing. no one remembered. they were healthy.
the leader was set free.
the leader knew all about it, what they did. oh, the agony they caused.
the leader knew what had to be done. they had to prove themselves to the world through a re-demonstration.
they rushed to their long forgotten throne, and in their hesitance, knocked over a small gift from a lover long dead, and so, the sand of the hourglass, the one with a small crack, began flowing once more.

#writing

neat thanks ill write more

(7/?)

i woke up in an empty warehouse. i think it was a dream? although, it's really vague. my body was translucent, but there was nothing inside there. i touched it and it felt like water. there was a mirror on the floor, and when i looked into it, i saw an entire body made of water, except my brain and my eyes. this made me stagger back a few steps. but weirdly enough, i didn't — or maybe couldn't — freak out about it. but i had this strong urge to get out of whatever this place was.
so i started walking towards what i presumed to be an exit, from like, REALLY far away, but then i hit a wall.
what the fuck? there was nothing there. and the collision didn't hurt either, it was like a small bump.
i touched around, and figured it had to be some form of glass. and it was a sort of maze rather than a single blocking pane. well, simple enough. i placed my hand on the glass wall and began walking. but then i turned a corner and my watery finger got cut on the glass. and i started bleeding water.
i was still calm about it all. and i woke up, and my cat was clawing on my hands, and a weird noise was coming from my spare room.

#writing

i recommend reading this one with a monospace font. it's a little experimental, hopefully the next revisions will get better as time goes on.

#writing

(8/?)

A.

A picks up their sword. A thinks of their previous life, of who they were. Did they go insane? How did they die? Did they even die? Their memory is so fuzzy. so, so fuzzy.
The sword is drenched in dithered blood. Two Ones and one Zero lay motionless on the ground. The dithered police lights of the monochrome world appear behind A. "Freeze, police! Put your arms in the air!"

A turns around, the sword dragging on the ground and making sparks. The furnace is warm and hungry. The imagery distresses A, and they drop their sword momentarily.

A, pick up your sword, and Paint. The. World. Red.

B.

He has been very sick all day, throwing up constantly. He dreams of getting the hell out of here. He dreams of meeting real creatures again. will he, ever?

Yes.
No.

#writing

what's goin on rivers