If you can see these words, you still possess the privilege of "reading."
Cherish this privilege. Cherish every breath you take without thought—for in your world, words still carry meaning, and light still bends predictably through space. But in my world, these have become ancient, almost absurd rituals.
My name is Elias. In what you so arrogantly call the "Age of Civilization," I was merely a lowly archivist in the "Cultural Heritage Administration." Back then, like all ordinary souls, I complained about the long commute on Sainted Road, the meager salary that barely covered rent, and London's endless afternoon rains that carried the scent of damp decay.
I once believed that the colors, the sounds, even every heartbeat in my chest, were free gifts from the universe—standard equipment for being human.
Later, I understood: they were not gifts. They were high-interest loans we, as parasites, borrowed from the void. And now, the debt is due.
Now, I sit in the wreckage of what you call "reality," guarding the last evaporating lamp. Its circle of light shrinks with every second. Beyond it lies not darkness, but nothingness—an absolute blank where not even the concept of "darkness" has yet been defined.
Let me ask you this:
One morning, you wake and walk to the bathroom, only to find the mirror no longer holds your reflection. Not because you've turned transparent, nor because the light has failed—but because the very logic of "reflection" was erased overnight by some nameless force. In that moment, faced with a pane of glass that refuses to mirror existence, how would you prove to yourself that you are still a flesh-and-blood entity, and not a misplaced fragment of data being scrubbed away?
Let me ask you again:
If a whisper now echoes in your ear, telling you this world is too heavy—burdened with unnecessary memories and emotions—and that if you surrender the one moment you loved and cherished most in your life… perhaps a rainy night with your first love, your mother's last smile, or the afternoon you first sensed the meaning of being alive… if you give it up, this crumbling world may breathe for one minute longer.
Would you?
Would you truly trade the only anchor of your soul for one