Is choice an illusion ? What's changing whether I go right or left, whether I speak French or English ? I'm still who I am, I'm not the sum of my choices, right ? I'm not some character in a game, whose choices are dictated by some higher being, right ? I'm sitting there, in my room, in front of my computer, and you're reading this. [[Hello, there.]] Let me write some things without really thinking them through. That will be my little experiment. Maybe we'll all learn something from it. Maybe we won't. [[Whatever.]]To be honest, I'm not really good at choices. I'm not good at choosing, I'm not good at making people chose. So I guess this is gonna be some sort of linear adventure... maybe ? I'm not really good at writing story either... maybe ? [[She's a lonely girl...]] [[He's a lovely boy...]] [[They're a funny person...]]She's always been fine with this. She doesn't really like people. She's sitting there, watching. The sounds of the pens scratching the papers are disrupting the quietness of the room. Not that she minds. It's kind of relaxing, actually. [[She's remembering last night, when she kissed that girl.]] [[She's thinking about tomorrow, the scheduled end of the world.]] In the silent room, the girl, the lonely girl, is failing her exam, but she doesn't care.He's looking at his face in the mirror. Hormones have started to kick in. He can see duvet on his chin. He can hear his voice sounding deeper, a bit erratic at times, but he doesn't mind. This is what he wants. [[This is who he is.]]She was not really in love with her but that girl was kind of cute and she kind of drunk so one thing led to another... Who is "she" ? Maybe it was herself (because who doesn't search oneself into each other), maybe it was a fellow student. Does that really matter ? She recalls the taste of blood in her mouth. She had bit her lip a few minutes before. Why ? How ? She doesn't remember. She felt a hand touching her long brown hair, and soft lips kissing hers. Something inside her wanted to scream, another wanted to moan. The loud humming of the fridge filled her ears, she could not tell whether her heart was pounding faster and faster or if it was just the music in the living room. She did not care. [[Maybe she dreamt it all.]]Tomorrow, the world is ending. Well, that's what the televangelist said, anyway. Well, in a sense, that's true. Tomorrow, she's moving somewhere else. She's leaving her parents and eloping with her new girlfriend... maybe ? Is any of this even real at that point ? [[Maybe she dreamt it all.]]Whatever, there's no choice in my world. But there's in yours. Who is she ? What does she want ? I could define all this, but in the end, you'll be the true masters of her destiny. This story is not mine to begin with. The more I define my own views, the less you have agency on this world. What would be the point to make choices then ? Life is not right or wrong, nor a chain of causality. Life is. To create choices is to define the lack of it. You started to know suffering the day you've realized you had to make choices. The day people made you chose. [[Choices are a lie.]]She, he, they. You're here, looking at that screen, reading my words. I guess they don't really make sense. But still, you're here, trying to understand. Chosing to understand, no matter what. [[Thank you.]] He's not me. He's a character. He's trans. He's a bit chubby. He's kind of a doofus but he's good-hearted and much more smart than you could think. His skin is pale and he's from latino ascent. He's gonna board a train with friends from a strange group, and weird things will happen. Also, he can't die. I know it because I've written this character. He's from a story I did not finish (but maybe, someday). In a way, I have no right to write his life, because I did not live it. Still, I'm here, writing about this character. He is who he is. Whether I write his story one day or not, he'll be forever a piece of my mind. In front of the mirror, he's thinking about his friends, he wants them to be happy because that's the way he is. His mother doesn't understand why he wants to be that way but [[he doesn't care]].They're me. I'm funny. Yeah, that sounds lame. It's not like I've got much choice, I'm not the kind of person who's very confident. But I'm funny, I guess. I'm writing this, thinking about things I don't fully understand, thinking about characters I don't really know, writing in a language which is not my mother tongue. [[Kind of awkward, hey.]]In a way, I'm under no obligation to write this. I could make you believe I'm a real smartass, mind-fucking you with a tale of epic proportions. Sorry, I can't. More often than not, my characters are as depressed as I am. They don't decide who they are, the same way I can't decide either. Yet, they're free, they live in my head and their stories unfold before me. I'm not a demiurge, I'm a weaver of tale, some sort of [[poet]]. Yeah, that sounds awesome. [[It's not.]]Funfact: i've always found the term "poet" funny, because it kinda sound like "pouet" in French... and that's really untranslatable for English folk. Sorry. But, while you're here, you could always... I don't know, think about something untranslatable in your own language ? I don't even know where I'm going with this. [[Kind of awkward, hey.]]I hate it. I hate it when I don't know where I'm going with my story. It needs to be perfect. But I'm not. And I can't do perfect things. I hate choices because it means possibilities. I hate possibilities because they are endless. Choices just make me feel like I won't ever be able to tell everything. A story is a piece of certitude in a sea of possibilities. Time is running. Time is running out. I can't even sit and write some kind of description... Well, I could, but what would be the point ? Should I write or should I play a game ? Should I live ? What is living ? [[Choices are a lie.]]I'm not like him. At all. He's much more confident, and handsome, and friendly. He's got his flaws but I hate my flaws much more than his. He's a piece of my imagination, he is what I could have been in some remote world where I'm not who I am currently. [[That sounds deep.]] [[That sounds shallow.]] I did not chose to create him, he's born the way he is. That seems like some kind of lame excuse. Maybe it is. I don't know if I could write him differently. [[Choices are a lie.]]I don't know if those words sound hopeful or hopeless. But choices are really a lie. You don't chose. You live. And nothing else matters. Thank you for being born, thank you for having read this, whoever you are. [[The end.]] L I V E so I can't die. I don't really know if there's some higher meaning to what I'm writing right now. It should, I guess, yet I don't feel I'm doing something really important. Maybe that's what art is, something deeply useless and unimportant yet extremely addictive and fulfilling. I'm making art because something deep inside me is screaming, is living, and I need to write things out so I can live at peace. I'm not chosing to be an artist, but it's not like it's a high calling. It just is. I'm not a higher being, I'm not better than others. However, I'm an artist but what does that mean really then ? I feel like I've reached a dead end.He's outside, looking at the landscape, smoking, thinking about his life. Or he's at a party, drinking and making a fool of himself. He's happy. I want him to be happy. That doesn't mean he's not gonna suffer, but it doesn't mean either I'm gonna make him suffer. I guess that's what life is, just one thing after another. That's not the choices which are important, because ultimately, we're all gonna reach [[the same end]]. Sometimes, there isn't any choice.D E A T H ... Let's start again, shall we ? [[Hello world]].What are you even doing here ? Go back, go back.