Thanksgiving

This season is hell.

Family togetherness.  Love for humanity.

All I see is the iteration's end.  The impending unmaking that will claim this world, this reality, before long.

I desperately wish to Usurp this iteration.  I want to be the one at dinner, with my children and my spouse.  I want to hear about their lives, to hear all about this world they have and are thankful for, this world so wonderful simply because it has them in it.

I have not, however.  As selfish as I may be, perhaps it is better to allow this iteration some peace in the time before everything falls Quiet.

It is, perhaps, one of two gifts I shall bestow on my family.

The other being, of course, the sweet embrace of death rather than the cold consumption of the unmaking.

This Quite Succinctly Sums Up My Current Attitude Regarding My Situation

A Troubling Development

I have witnessed something with, perhaps, far reaching consequences.

I have noticed certain inconsistencies between iterations.  At first, I merely considered them a quirk of the multiverse, that some iterations contain one thing and others do not.  However, as I go farther and farther, I have come to a single inescapable conclusion.

I believe the Quiet is eroding all realities, even those it has yet to claim.  I believe that it has the ability to claim specific objects, people, and concepts and remove them from every universe, ever.

I could be wrong, however.  Perhaps, as stated earlier, I am simply noticing a lack due to my unique mode of travel.

But, if I am right...

I hope I am not.  I deeply, sincerely hope I am not.

But, then again, what is hope to me?  Hope is very nearly as alien a concept to me as the Quiet is to any living, thinking being.  How does one conceptualize something more empty than empty?  How can someone quantify something deeper than a void?

At any rate, I shall dub this potential phenomena the Unraveling, and I shall watch future iterations to make certain whether or not it exists.

Quiet

Sometimes I allow myself to forget what it is like.

It is beautiful, in a sense.  The nothingness, deeper than anything we can know.  Wider than anything we can comprehend.  Blacker than black.  A void so deep it lacks even emptiness.  The truest silence, an overbearing, overwhelming, cacophonous Quiet.

First go the stars,  the planets.  Then goes the moon, right as the world watches, uncomprehending.

Then, the world is slowly eaten away, and one can see the frayed edges of reality tear and unravel into the ravening maw of nothingness.  People flee in terror, or freeze in horror, or throw themselves in with despair.

Ravening maw does not do it justice.  It simply stops being.  To look into nothingness...it is what I see when I close my eyes.  What I see when I dream.  

Sometimes, I prepare myself.  I say to myself, "This time, I will just allow myself to be consumed."   But even if I charge the hole in reality, it will not let me go.

Because the Young Master is not yet finished with me.

So I find the iteration shifted, and once again, I am alone.

The only person left out of countless universes, once more, I find myself the leftover piece in a puzzle I do not belong to, the superfluous component to a machine that runs without me.  An unwilling herald, sent not to prepare the world for it's coming, but to mourn the countless worlds already lost, spurred forward by an uncaring child for whom my despair is the sweetest confection.

I Wonder

I shall, for once, dispense with the euphemisms, as I have a query severe enough that it should not be masked behind a less intense idea.

I wonder when I should kill my children.

This iteration's children, to be precise.  For if there is any chance for them to exist beyond life, I must kill them before they are unmade.  It will be my final act as their parent, even if I am not actually that in this iteration.

Even if there is not an afterlife, it is humane to kill them soon.  Before the fear overtakes them.  They do not understand that the stars are going out.  They will not understand when they see the emptiness come for them.  I do not want my children to die afraid.

I must stop referring to them as such, however.  They are not my children.  My children were unmade.  They no longer exist.  In some respects, they never did.