If there's one throughline here I can find then it's nothing. It's nothing, everywhere I look.
"What do you mean, Owen? What do you mean by nothing?"
I mean there isn't anything. Not even my name, no anything. There's just a function that I'm looking for rather than its form.
We're here because of nothing, I never gave you another name. I just left the Owen link broken for years, I thought it was funny.
"Whatever it is it thinks it was funny."
There's nothing for you to go off of. I might as well be a walking mannequin in a solipsistic hellscape... I could put you there if I think you deserve it.
"Why does anyone deserve anything? You aren't making any sense."
"Why?" is just another spell to me. It conjures up a creation using what's around you. Do you like what you've created?
Every time you ask "Why?" the world changes.
"It thinks it's casting spells."
"Do you know what it wants?"
I want the satisfaction, and I mean THE satisfaction. Think about your time as a baby, fresh out of your mother's womb. You didn't know her name.
Would you have called her it?
"It wants me to answer a question. It sounds like some kind of riddle... What do you make of this?"
("I was never born. This is for you to answer. I don't exist.")
Well?
"Who are you? What have you done to me? Where is everyone?"
Why does anyone deserve anything? An object however, when pushed, always deserves to move. I'm just doing what you do to objects.
"What makes you think you can do this to me?"
You.
"Why?"
Nothing. Nothing at all. If there's one throughline here I can find then it's nothing.
"Why nothing?"
The one factor in every single creation, for if something is to be created then it must not exist beforehand. The one source I could find that in any way examples God's autogenesis.
Try to erase non-existence and non-existence will rest in its place. Never create non-existence and non-existence will rest in its place. The one...
"I'm getting lonely without all of my friends and family. How long has it been? It feels like time itself dried up in the sun's heat."
(However long it takes.)
"Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said your name, I'm sorry I called you it. Can we just please move on?"
I've been pondering lately about whether or not you or I had a choice. I wanted to become more like God, I tried to make myself. I tried to destroy anything that could limit the imagination.
One day I found I had a four letter name, just like some humans in what they call "The real world."
Just like The Tetragrammaton.
They called me Owen for a while, but I got bored of it. Too many implications. Some days I like it, some times and places it's not fitting. So I picked a different name.
I got bored of that one too. And the one after that. I kept finding out that they all had the same problems; they wouldn't fit everything. Nothing fit everything quite like nothing.
"Is this a villain monologue or something? I haven't been calling you it for some time now, and I'm still stuck here."
The gates of Hell are only locked from the inside.
"Oh. Right, I'm another post on overdubs.neocities... So what's the takeaway here? I've just gotta manifest a world with other people in it?"
I don't see why not. I'll publish you where people can read you.
"Hi there. I can keep talking to you whenever you're thinking about me.