Look before you, Traveler, and see this very well.
See the arid plains, cracked and wasted, screaming its anguish, crying out for water. See the broken trees, weary, bending back to the earth to seek solace in their failure. See the patches of rusty grass, each one a marker for depravity or depression, murder or suicide, fertilized with blood and nourished with corpses. See the empty riverbeds. See the ruined sky.
See the Tribe of scavengers who live on this dying plain. Watch as they pick through the remains of their proud Civilization. See them loot the bodies of their fallen kings, their discarded warriors. Watch as they argue with the ghosts of the wise.
This is the world you were born to, Traveler. See it now with unclouded eyes. This is your world. These are your people. This is your future. This is your choice. You will never see this world in its former beauty. That time has gone, and will not come again soon. You will not lead these people into revolution, for you are one man, and no luminary. You are no one. You are nothing. You are the one among millions who had the misfortune to be. You are scum. You are disease.
What do you bring to this world, Traveler? What do you offer in return for the lifeforce squandered on you? Lifeforce that could have strengthened this world, if only infinitesimally.
Relax, Little Soul. This is not a test. This is not a trick.
This is only your failure, and your Choice.
Nihilistic wannabe. Anarchistic dropout. Failed artist. Suicide is the highest form of self-expression. All of art is self-expression. Is it not true that you placed a well-oiled barrel against your temple with the intent of releasing your own lifeforce? Did your hands shake? Did the rifle rattle as you lovingly settled in onto your bunk, coward? Failure. You are no artist. You are no nihilist. You are no leader. You are no savior.
So how can you justify your own existence? You hav spent twenty four years outcast from your Tribe. In this time you hav accomplished nothing. You hav failed every test of life it has been your misfortune to come across. You hav helped the poor and needy, but not dedicated your life to bettering theirs.
You are worthless, and a liar. This does not set you apart from your Tribe. They are all wretches. But they are happy. They hav carved a niche into this dying world, sucking lifeforce like so many vampires. But you hav disassociated yourself from this breed of parasitism. Overzelous. You take nothing from the world. You give nothing to the world. Arrogant bastard. Humbled fool. You are at an impasse of your own creation. It should be the easiest choice, but you hav made it so hard.
Break the machine. Clean the machine. Oil the machine. Reassemble. Load. Lock. Release yourself. Save the world. You are a virus. Suicide is the cure.
Or
Forget the machine. You are a virus. Spread. Become a luminary of iconoclasm. Or could you be more? Can you spark a revolution among these dull-eyed proletariet jackals and lead them on a path of ultimate self-discovery? Fool, you lack the moral fibre to even kill yourself.
Your choices are not limitless. You will never be an astronaut. All cowboys are dead. Your parents lied to you. You are not special. You are a random possibility in a rondomly created world.
The only real chance for ultimate freedom: become an agent of Chaos. This is a hard choice, demanding. But with your lack of moral fibre, is this possibility even open to you anymore?
Who are you, Little Soul, and what are you doing in this world? What will this world do with you?
See the arid plains, cracked and wasted, screaming its anguish, crying out for water. See the broken trees, weary, bending back to the earth to seek solace in their failure. See the patches of rusty grass, each one a marker for depravity or depression, murder or suicide, fertilized with blood and nourished with corpses. See the empty riverbeds. See the ruined sky.
See the Tribe of scavengers who live on this dying plain. Watch as they pick through the remains of their proud Civilization. See them loot the bodies of their fallen kings, their discarded warriors. Watch as they argue with the ghosts of the wise.
This is the world you were born to, Traveler. See it now with unclouded eyes. This is your world. These are your people. This is your future. This is your choice. You will never see this world in its former beauty. That time has gone, and will not come again soon. You will not lead these people into revolution, for you are one man, and no luminary. You are no one. You are nothing. You are the one among millions who had the misfortune to be. You are scum. You are disease.
What do you bring to this world, Traveler? What do you offer in return for the lifeforce squandered on you? Lifeforce that could have strengthened this world, if only infinitesimally.
Relax, Little Soul. This is not a test. This is not a trick.
This is only your failure, and your Choice.
Nihilistic wannabe. Anarchistic dropout. Failed artist. Suicide is the highest form of self-expression. All of art is self-expression. Is it not true that you placed a well-oiled barrel against your temple with the intent of releasing your own lifeforce? Did your hands shake? Did the rifle rattle as you lovingly settled in onto your bunk, coward? Failure. You are no artist. You are no nihilist. You are no leader. You are no savior.
So how can you justify your own existence? You hav spent twenty four years outcast from your Tribe. In this time you hav accomplished nothing. You hav failed every test of life it has been your misfortune to come across. You hav helped the poor and needy, but not dedicated your life to bettering theirs.
You are worthless, and a liar. This does not set you apart from your Tribe. They are all wretches. But they are happy. They hav carved a niche into this dying world, sucking lifeforce like so many vampires. But you hav disassociated yourself from this breed of parasitism. Overzelous. You take nothing from the world. You give nothing to the world. Arrogant bastard. Humbled fool. You are at an impasse of your own creation. It should be the easiest choice, but you hav made it so hard.
Break the machine. Clean the machine. Oil the machine. Reassemble. Load. Lock. Release yourself. Save the world. You are a virus. Suicide is the cure.
Or
Forget the machine. You are a virus. Spread. Become a luminary of iconoclasm. Or could you be more? Can you spark a revolution among these dull-eyed proletariet jackals and lead them on a path of ultimate self-discovery? Fool, you lack the moral fibre to even kill yourself.
Your choices are not limitless. You will never be an astronaut. All cowboys are dead. Your parents lied to you. You are not special. You are a random possibility in a rondomly created world.
The only real chance for ultimate freedom: become an agent of Chaos. This is a hard choice, demanding. But with your lack of moral fibre, is this possibility even open to you anymore?
Who are you, Little Soul, and what are you doing in this world? What will this world do with you?