If you could perceive time as I do then you would know it is not linear, nor is it curved like a bell. The simplest way of explaining it is to imagine a needle and thread held above a cloth. The needle pierces the present from some unimaginable future and dives into a past unseen only to return a passing stitch towards a similar yet undefined future. The seamstress knows little about what they do not see, but with the right tough the stitching concludes in one sturdy, beautiful stitch.
That was how it always had been for those of us collecting history’ seeing just enough of the story to steer it towards an immaculate “happily ever after”. We never questioned our place in this world in the same way our characters did. Their free will to stoically defy their fate was but a comma in our prose. Never could we have imagined a time when ink would blot out ink and destroy what we had created.
Existence craves instinct which relies on action. In an effort to thwart the effects of extinguishing history we grabbed hold of our collective needle and frantically repaired the bursting seam, the torn away fabric of space, time, and reality.
In our haste we did what the drying ink could not. We perverted our creations instead of saving them. There was no mercy in nonexistence. There were only the things that should not have been, born from fear, weaned on despair and faulty design, and neglected by the chaos of not knowing what should happen next.
I can only hope the monstrosity we have created is guided by a hand other than our own. Never before have I felt so inclined to place my quill in the dust of neglect and hide my face in shame for what I have wrought. I hope the future will find itself unharmed by our lack of diligence and that there is a force willing to forgive us for the things we cannot forgive ourselves for.
To my creation, I’m sorry.