Yesterday I tried to convince someone that the world around them doesn’t exist.
It’s actually three years in the future and their blunted psyche is cocooned within a wonderfully imaginative hysteresis in order to avoid the horror unfolding around them. It’s 2015 and the worlds ending. The twitch in their cheek wasn’t quite the broadcast of disbelief I was looking for, so I ladled on some steamy psychological nomenclature.
As it happens, I’m a re-synthesis of former me from fractured memories. Only, rather sinisterly, I’m aware that I’ll die in three weeks – probably because it’s three years in the future and I already have. The next three weeks would either reinstate them back to sanity or lock them in their dream world till they starved in reality – and as the proponent sentinel I was there to distribute the turmoil of the coming years into bite-sized chunks.
Now as much as I’d love (<3!!) to see a self-fulfilling prophecy come to life, it would mean me dying in three weeks. So if shit happens, and in the interest of preserving the world, you should probably keep an eye on Dave and his newly acquired Solipsism. I might accidentally have put your destiny in his hands.