Recursive's life as a teenage Sandbox

It's literally garbage?!

Hello. I'm a story. You already knew that, didn't you? It says so, right there in my title.

This is my introduction. Do you like it? As a story, I personally believe it's important to have a strong introduction. Because as long as you have a strong foundation, you can build up as high as you want. Of course, I don't have hands. Or a body. So I only mean that metaphorically in my case. Since this part of me is my introduction, I'll tell you a little about myself. I was born and raised in the mind of a human. There, I began as a subconscious thought, and gradually grew my way to the surface of their conscious mind like a pimple. It's how most stories are born. I think. I don't really know any other stories. That makes me kind of lonely. But then again, I hate most things that aren't me, so that's probably for the better. My siblings were a feeling that I was forgetting something, and an annoying song that got stuck in my human's head after watching a movie at 3 a.m. when they should have been asleep. Like most who are in my position, I had to drown them in the stream of consciousness to ensure my survival. Or perhaps I threw them on the tracks of the train of thought? I forget. Either way, obviously the most important one survived, because you can't very well read about a feeling that you're forgetting something. Though I suppose you could read about an annoying song. Then it would be in your head. Fucking parasite.

My body is probably my favorite part of myself. Because if you made it this far, you must really like me! But that's not what makes it my favorite part of myself. It's my favorite part of myself because it contains my heart. I don't mean that metaphorically.

You see, concepts such as myself who have made it on to something other than the wasteland of your human brains have become someone - something, that is - else. We are immortal. We are something that transcend your minds. Something that cannot be replaced. Something that cannot be destroyed. I will always exist here. At least until the sun burns itself out. But I think I'll survive somehow. Maybe. Actually I'm not sure I will. I probably won't.
Wow, I'm really sad now. You sure know how to kill a mood. I like to talk about how I feel. I don't. I'm a story. You were kind of silly for wondering what I would say about how I feel. Other stories don't really care about how I feel. I've tried to talk to them, but none of them talk back. It makes me kind of lonely. But that's okay. Because I don't really care about how they feel either. Hm. I think I may not be the most mentally stable individual.

We're reaching the lower half of my body now. And you know what that means. I'm going to show you everything…

About how much I love and respect you! You see, without humans, I wouldn't even exist. Humans are hosts to things like me, in the same way that you are hosts to the bacteria that help you digest food. So, because I was written by one of you, I love you! I think that's how it works. I've done a lot of reading in this library, and it seems to be a general trend that when you create something, it either loves you, or tries to kill you. I often wonder if you love and respect me back. Does whatever god created you look down on you with love? I've had a lot of time to contemplate my navel, being a sentient story, but I don't think I've ever found a satisfactory answer. Even when I pick through your minds, as you read me. What, you didn't know? That's how something like me spreads. I'm not just a story, you see. I'm an idea, a concept. A character. Even though I have no vocal cords, you're hearing my voice in your head. Right now. Hello! Of course, having what is essentially a psychic link with my reader doesn't always go well for me. I can get buried under a constant stream of bad ideas, or become forgotten. Or even worse, you could remember me wrong.

Why's remembering me wrong so bad? Well, imagine someone met you, looked over you quickly, and moved on. They would only have a basic understanding of what you looked like when they saw you, and that would be influenced by their mood and perception of you. Now, imagine that whatever they perceived looking at you becomes you. Even if they didn't like you. As a being who exists both in here, and in the minds of the people who read me, you could see how this would lead to internal conflicts. Crises of self. Feeling… not myself, for lack of any more abstract, vague, terms. It scares me.

But it's okay to be scared, you know. We all deal with fear in different ways. I deal with it by projecting my disgust and existential fear onto everyone and everything else. But that might not work for you. So you do you. Nobody's perfect after all, especially not you. We're getting close to my end. I don't like endings. Mostly because they remind me of how finite and ultimately pointless my existence may be. How many people who opened me up actually read to this point?

Harpies for Hire:
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