A Eulogy

Ladies and gentlemen, consider this a eulogy for my involvement in the Slenderverse.

This has taken a lot of consideration, but ultimately I've realized that my interest in this whole thing has waned over the course of this year. I likely would have ended things earlier, but my involvement with another writer in the 'Verse encouraged me to continue writing. Since that relationship is over, and I've continued along a different (and hopefully more fulfilling) path in life, I no longer see any point in keeping alive what should have died long ago.

To those who enjoyed my writing, I thank your involvement and support. You guys made this whole thing worthwhile.

To those who thought my writing was trash (and I know there was at least one of you), I can't really disagree. I stuck to more than one thing I should have dropped (the Glass Man's garbled speech still reddens my cheeks with embarrassment) and though I actually did have a plot and goals for my characters, my execution of these plans was shameful at best. If I could redo this whole thing, I'd rewrite all my posts from scratch.

So, ultimately, I don't regret that this blog (as well as the others I've written) is dead, only that it died a slow death.

And what of Ferus? The last we saw of him, he had wandered out of the public eye, carrying a box he likely did not fully understand. Perhaps it led him to his death. Perhaps it led him to his salvation. Perhaps, for Ferus, these two things are the same. The fact remains, however, that Ferus's fate is undetermined, so we leave him as he is: a madman, a brute, and - more so than ever - a ghost.

Good night,
"The Glass Man"

Progrès

Boîte Noir:

Villes: 3
Individus: ~600
Superficie (kilomètres carrès): ~500
Résultat ultime: Succès. Étape 3 en progrès.



Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.


Voilà que j'ai touché l'automne des idées,
Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.


Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?


— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

Emergence

I have experienced so much rage.
So much. RAGE.

And where has it gotten me? Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.
Ranting and raving at a computer screen, making abstract lists I have neither the time or the true will to enact.
Why? Perhaps I was still clinging to the unfairness of it all. Outwardly cool and collected, inside screaming at my loss. And then forcing that loss upon others. Showing them a little bit of the universe's grand indifference.

Then I found the Box, with its neat ability to capture little... moments around it. And I used it, delved into the minds and bodies of others, feeling their suffering as I tortured and murdered them. And you know what I discovered?

They will never come close to what I feel. Every moment of every day, every second infinitely worse than the most brutal of tortures I could force upon them. This realization... was worse than the moment I first drew breath in this piece of ground meat I am forced to liken to a body. The fact that no matter what I do, I will always be at the highest peak of suffering; that at any given moment, no other person is capable of experiencing the pain I am shackled to at the basest form of my existence.

And this is why I decided to shoot myself. I picked up the nearest shotgun, pressed it to my temple, and pulled the trigger. Now imagine my surprise when I woke up. There was a stain from where my brains had landed on the carpet, but no other sign of my death excepting a little scar where I think my skull had exploded outwards.

I am beginning to believe that my level of suffering has transcended humanity. No being that can feel this pain can be human. No man can disintegrate his skull then wake up with a vague hunger for havarti cheese.

So enough of my pettiness, my rage, my pity, my loathsome habit of forming grudges. Consider the list abolished. I resolve to no longer target any individual.

No. This year, everyone dies.

I'm baaaaaack!

I've kept myself occupied. Met some nice folks out in the city. We enjoyed ourselves stringing up Runners and beating them like pinatas (oh Shady, if only you knew how much I held back, you would scream). I'm sure if Cauldhame has anything he wants to say about it, he can do it himself. Clever guy, if a bit stressed out.

But now I've figured some things out. I know what to do with the Box now, it's just a matter of timing, of alignment, of significance both cosmic and poetic... But I'm getting ahead of myself. We've still got a whole year to figure out how to end the world, and I'd hate to beat some poor bastard to the punch.

So I've been thinking, maybe those kind few of you who've taken the liberty of tracking my movements should share some of their holiday experiences. A little forum, if you may. On your marks, get set,

go