A God Of Sorts

There is another level of existence between free will and fate. Even a god has a god of sorts. And it's the ‘gods of sorts’ that drive the story. They have names like Muse and Inspiration, they have faces that we call gut-feeling and half-conscious instinct. We live and we act and we choose, yes, but the choices do not go unrecorded, and on the scale of divinity there is no solid state of Time. What is written is what happened; what happened was not fated; yet it could not happen until it was written. So what drove the writing? Was it our choices reaching back through Time to move the pen, or was it the gut-feeling of a god composing his words as he witnessed what we chose? The story wanted telling because it was already there, but nobody knew the plot—not even the god who wove it. He was a reporter on a train of thought, kicking coal into the engine with a sleeping foot. We… are the fierce clay models of a blind potter who directs his hands by the voices of ghosts, and even the ghosts are haunted. There is no ultimate Authority here; the tale is endless in each direction, or else it is massively circular. For I have lived for five hundred years, and never known more than a fleeting deja vu. The river called Narrative sweeps us all along in its flow, and its waters fork endlessly as it rolls toward a beautiful horizon where the sun trembles forever halved.

Mythos: A Warning To Travelers

Gaze not into the Jester’s eyes

For in them lurks a bad surprise:

One eye glints red, the other green

And with each blink they trade the gleam.