Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-32686563-20190625122426

Entry 1
It's lonely out here. Not that there isn't anyone at all. But the ones that do come by always seem to have wayward purpose to them. Always needing to leave sometime in the near future. Not for some appointment or responsibility, I think; no, not in times like these. I think it's more personal.

I can't say that I don't understand that. The purposeful way by which many creatures yearn to exist. I once had a purpose. I suppose I still do, but it's been completed. After the Decision I've made, well, there's not much more for me to do.

I'm not totally certain the Decision was mine to take. I don't know whether the one that gave me my purpose desired my Task to go on forever, but I don't think so. I think I'm in the right, here. Or, at least, not in the wrong. Do you understand? Can't you at all understand?

Will anyone ever understand this?

Will anyone ever read this?

Entry 2
Even though my purpose has been completed, I've decided that I still yearn to exist. Maybe that's not true, but I'll say it is. And you can't prove me wrong. And if you can, you've chosen not to. The point being, I continue to cater to my own needs, not unlike living things always have. These materials necessary for the continuation of my existence would serve no other purpose otherwise. Why let them go to waste?

Entry 3
I stare at the stars a lot, and doing so I wonder about so many things far beyond my understanding. I wonder what lies beyond those stars. I wonder if those stars are lonely. If they breathe. I know they have no organs, no lungs, no heart, no eyes, no tongue, no brain. But you don't need a brain to have a mind, do you? No, I don't think so. But I'm not sure if you need a soul for the mind to function. If that is the case, does this mean I have a soul? If not, does that mean you do not need a soul to make a mind function, or simply that what I have is not a mind at all? And if it is true that I have a soul, then what does that say about other creations? Does every little construction, every item crafted, have it's own little soul? Maybe everything has a soul.

What is a soul?

Entry 4
I keep my arms moving. I keep my legs moving. In other instances, I think it would be referred to exercise. Rather, I simply don't want to wither away. If I am ever found here, I don't want it to be in a heap of useless matter. I want to be able to speak. I want to be able to convey why I'm here, and why little else is. I want to convey why, what used to be here, isn't here anymore. This is why I write this. To keep my arm moving, swaying, flowing, to keep my language familiar to me. My fingers tight on the writing utensil. My other hand positioned so as the paper is still as I stain it with this ink. But more importantly, so that my mind- or at least, whatever machination allows for my level of comprehension, and some would say, sentience, to exist- stays fresh and lively. I don't know if it can ooze away like my energy can, erode away like my body can. But I'm less than intent on finding out.

Entry 5
For so long I've marveled at what wonders reality can bring. It's funny way of constructing life. It's funny way of conveying death. The existence of feeling, of sentience. I've cultivated it. I've "lived" it. Now, at the end of it all, I find myself sympathizing with those instances of life who'd expressed boredom. Existential emptiness, meaninglessness. But even so, I find quaint "fun" by burying myself deep in thought. Contemplation of mysteries and wonders are how I bide my time, and keep my "mind" fresh. And even more important, I don't let the danger that philosophy and thought bring consume me, like so many others have.

I don't think the existence of sentience is a cruel game. I think it's a way for reality to look upon itself. To improve upon itself. A second opinion from another version of itself. It's reality's way, I theorize, of coping with the eternal and infinite emptiness that is beyond itself. Or maybe there is more beyond reality's walls than I can see or feel.

I can't know. I simply can't know. I do my best to not dwell on this intriguing, yet frustrating fact.

Entry 6
Today, the stars beckoned to me. They spun in little circles underneath a dark shape. It's as if they wave to me, a gesture which used to have significance here. A gesture which used to mean a kind greeting.

I've called out to the cosmos. Is this it's answer? These spinning stars, from what I can see, travel throughout my world, as if studying it, and studying me. I wonder if they'll come down and say hello.

Entry 7
I don't think those are stars.

Entry 8
They came down to say hello.

Entry 9
The entities had emerged from the dark shapes under which lights spun. They tried communicating with me; I didn't understand them. Eventually, they found a way we could talk to each other. They are very clever creatures. I'm so, so happy. I don't care if that word is inaccurate. They're as curious about what I have to tell as I am eager to tell them. They wonder why I'm made of metal, and not flesh. They wonder why the world is nearly empty. They wonder why I hold the key to igniting the flame of life once more, and why I've hesitated to do so. They wonder why the great cities that were once here have now been reduced to ash. They wonder why they're so alone in their exploration of the universe and it's majesty. They wonder what the people here used to be like. And I tell them. I tell them everything. Why this planet is so empty. Why life has given up here. Why plants no longer grow. Why I've remained here, pondering. Why're they're so alone.

They respectfully disagreed with the Decision I made all that time ago. And I know precisely why.

They simply don't like being alone. 