The artifact in question is in your possession. All memory of it has been erased, either by you, or someone else, I don’t know yet. Maybe a combination. While the artifact cannot harm you in your ignorant state, those hunting for it are committing atrocities across universes in their quest to find it. But these atrocities are nothing compared to the enslavement and holocaust which should result in their acquisition of the artifact. There are also those searching who would seek to thwart this harm, and prevent the artifact falling into the wrong hands. And yet, somehow it’s entrusted to you to figure out who gets it. Will there ever be bloodshed enough to cleanse the universe of its sense of humor?
Please do not mistake this as some symbolic, feel-good self-help motivational manifesto about how all the power to achieve your dreams and get everything you want was yours all along if you just believed in yourself. Nothing could be further from the truth. You’re a pawn, so selected due to your obliviousness to reality that is so complete it verges on miracle.
Many of these entries descend into fable, for therein lies an infinite number of ways to explain the unexplainable, and maybe one of them will stick someday. Have you heard the one about the mysterious stranger?
The stranger haunts many lands. And that’s only the portion that is speakable. The stranger said something to you of immense importance, but you missed it and the stranger committed suicide out of despair. Placing the artifact under your domain was one gamble too many for the old wizard. Even the magical run out of luck.
Wherefore, this document then? If all is lost, then what’s the point? But all is not lost. In fact, you’ve got it. We just don’t know where you put it. Allow us to explain:
The old magical ones immerse themselves in arcane lore which was worked out by others before them as a way of keeping busy. By analogy, today’s academics do the same thing. Publish or perish, write books about books about books. Actual magical knowledge is sparse and powerful enough to avoid classification. But those who study the arts go into it for power. To one-up the world, get back at their bullies, escape, hide from the chaos of the universe in the calligraphy of dusty manuscripts that look deliberately made but are in fact, patchwork garbage. They entrench this knowledge as the only way to true knowledge, despite having none of their own, and they become old enough that these young people with the same emotional hangups as the old guard swallow the bait, and the cycle continues. The old people finally have the respect they need to feel somewhat in control of things despite having never accomplished anything except cement a form of institutionalized confusion.
We for one, say fuck all that nonsense. Not to say the old ones lacked for cleverness. They have millennia of self-devouring rules tangled like an Oroboros in a series of constrictor knots. It is beyond doubtful that they can recover the artifact, and if we leave it to them, we are doomed. Nor can we trust ourselves to develop our own schools. The very attempt to do so is to fall into the same inescapable rut that has befallen so many before us.
Another fable then . . . and no, this is not a self-esteem promoting exercise to get you to write your own ending or some bullshit. Where you find the answer to your own question without knowing what either is. What a load of toss. This tale is of the Old Asylum.
The Asylum appears dark and full of malevolence. It is easy to understand why those such as ourselves are kept there. Our histories would provide enough sordid detail to study until the end of the universe.
A fascinating look at strange magic explored simply to find the end of the road: no benefit, no result, just phantasmic effects. The weird and unproductive are kept locked away. However, our darkness is illusory. It’s just your own wall you’re looking at. Like your stupidity is our wall. Our fragmentary sentences may appear as poetry, and legendary epics have been written from the pieces. But it’s all just wallpaper. Our identities so fixed and fascinating that people aspire to such changelessness every day of their life. They fantasize opposites in an attempt to explain. All of the above is a mistake.
We have become your artifact. That is our maneuver. Although we found its doorway in a place you cannot access. Therefore it is imperative that you recover it on your own plane. The stranger tried to tell you. But we are here now, working on our own shortcut. What if you just got up and left everything you knew? Would that reveal it?