You Will Read This Story

[KakeiTheWolf]

Right now, you're reading a story.

You're reading a story because perhaps it piqued your interest.

Or maybe you have little else to do that you can think of.

Perhaps the intentional mystery draws you in.

 

I'm going to tell you right now: There is no story here.

It's just me talking to you and wasting your time; nothing is here.

But you can't fight that human urge, that of "what if"; you just can't.

Despite the warning given, you'll read on anyway. You just have to.

 

We're conditioned to doubt advice and warning, to ignore conviction.

We like to thing everything has a catch, that it is not as it seems.

This story is, but that won't stop you. You can't bear not knowing.

Your human nature compels you to read on, as if something is there.

 

You opened this looking for a magical tale of flights of fantasy.

People always love the concept of the lofty things not possible.

Everyone loves happy endings, true love, and villains foisted.

It's in our blood: We are indoctrinated with what ifs and mayhaps.

 

Maybe you wanted to see a normal person's tale of life.

We do so love to read the mundane, things we can relate to.

Spinning musty tales of ordinary worlds, to not be alone.

We want to see a life that is not our own, to not be a prisoner.

 

Maybe you went this far solely because you believe I hold out.

I've assured you, there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

But you don't care. You need to know the end. Just for mental peace.

You want closure, you want answers. We don't like the dark much.

 

So why, you ask, do I tell you that you will do this, as a fact?

Do you not, you say, have free will to do what you want?

I assure you, I'm not making your choices. You're the one reading.

I can't goad you forward or hold you back. It's your choice, always.

 

Yes, you do have free will. You choose everything every day.

You choose to wake up, to sleep, to eat, to defecate, to work.

You choose to laugh, to cry, to read, to love, to make love.

I have no hand in these, these are always your choices.

 

No, you do not have free will. Everything is predeterministic.

Given the same stimuli in simulations, you always choose the same.

Your brain is wired that it will never stray from a path determined.

Your choice has been made from birth. You were destined to read on.

 

You are presented with a paradox: You can and cannot choose.

The writer holds the pen, he controls everything in his written world.

You must always accept his ending, because you chose his story.

And so you accept the inevitable ending; nothing can change it.

 

I have stripped the essence of a story to the bare bones: A conduit.

It is the vessel carrying my words and thoughts to your eyes.

I relay my feelings and emotions, my inner sanctuary is revealed.

You can choose the pages you read, but never make your ending.

 

Depressing, isn't it? To be without control in this little exchange?

We have a conversation, but you don't choose your words at all.

You're my prisoner. I choose every path that you take in this.

The control panel is right at my fingers; you can never touch it.

 

Regardless of how many endings I could write for you, they're mine.

As long as I write the words, you will never know freedom.

You have accepted your fate: You are powerless before me.

I could give you the keys to your shackles, and you'd still be chained.

 

But don't direct that anger at me! After all, I am a mere writer.

I do as every writer has before: I transfix someone and pull strings.

I draw you into a world I control, where you have no power.

As long as you keep reading, writers control your very heart.

 

But now it hits you, clear as day: Every writer is like this.

They've all controlled you and forced you to accept choices.

You will always accept a writer's ending as long as you read.

For, every time you read, you know you never had any control.

 

You're a bit shocked by this. The notion of this reality scars you.

Every tale you ever read or heard, you were just accepting fates.

Now you understand the part of the reader.

But what of my kind, the writers?

 

Our tale is just as sad. We can never let people choose an ending.

Even if we can, it's all endings we thought up. Nothing novel.

Imagination dies at our pens, and the readers are left wanting.

We live a nightmare where we provide a vapid experience.

 

And now we come to the end of this story. Told you: Nothing.

Perhaps you can make something of this; I give a blank canvas.

Now you can write an ending. I give you control.

Now the reader has the power of the writer.

 

So you tell me: Did I leave you with an ending that meant nothing... or everything?

[Qessanea]

And so I did. Thanks; I found it quite interesting, especially this part: "Imagination dies at our pens." A very unusual way of looking at it, since so often writing is presented as a process of freedom and infinite promise rather than the opposite. :)

[Keanumoreira]

Despite the argument of this story, yes, I got something out of this; a lot, actually. While it is true that the stories we read are out of our control, we're all writing our own right now, in this small window in time: life, my friend, a book that's far from ending, and we each contribute a little bit to it. As for our own stories, that's a gift all its own. We may not know it, but everyone has the choice to choose their own ending. Even when a death is accidental, the writer has chosen their ending, albeit, unsuspectingly. That's what makes a tale so gripping; it's a story unique to its creator, to the only one that may finish it. When others are given the honor of taking a peek within, that, in my opinion, is the pot of gold that can be found in every story.

 

I found my own in this one.

 

 

As Shakespeare once said (in what can be thought of, in similar terms, as a story): "All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits, and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

Edited November 11, 2013 by Keanumoreira

[KakeiTheWolf]

Despite the argument of this story, yes, I got something out of this; a lot, actually. While it is true that the stories we read are out of our control, we're all writing our own right now, in this small window in time: life, my friend, a book that's far from ending, and we each contribute a little bit to it. As for our own stories, that's a gift all its own. We may not know it, but everyone has the choice to choose their own ending. Even when a death is accidental, the writer has chosen their ending, albeit, unsuspectingly. That's what makes a tale so gripping; it's a story unique to its creator, to the only one that may finish it. When others are given the honor of taking a peek within, that, in my opinion, is the pot of gold that can be found in every story.

 

I found my own in this one.

 

 

As Shakespeare once said (in what can be thought of, in similar terms, as a story): "All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits, and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

That's actually quite deep, and such thought-provoking statements were originally the intended result of the story.

 

The story is as far into metafiction as you can plunge, really. I originally designed it as both a metaphor for our helplessness when reading, as well as giving the reader the chance to make an ending to a story that gives them no ending and is completely open ended. I intended to make the narrator condescending and abrasive, give extensive warning that the story was disappointing (and intended to deliver), whilst using psychology to state the illusion of free will, by saying that even though they could stop at any time, the readers wouldn't because of human nature.

 

It's no coincidence that I wrote this shortly after playing The Stanley Parable :P

[Keanumoreira]

Thank you.

 

I like stories like this, the unusual ones that give people pause. It's something different, and like any good story, it leaves the reader with something new. I found its dark nature to be a bonus. :thumbsup:

Edited November 12, 2013 by Keanumoreira

[KakeiTheWolf]

It combined my two loves: Sarcasm and condescension.