my dear reader

The Fates twirl a ball of yarn. The yarn is the story of existence. They know what they hold in their hands. They do not care. They are moody, they are jealous. They are angry. They have no lives, no existence but for this yarn. Weaving it into tales. And they see the stories they watch over being played out in others’ lives. It makes them green with envy. They smell of rot and they smell of ambrosia. Their skin looks brittle and their skin looks smooth. They are at once old and young. Aged liked the centuries have ravaged them. Young as a baby just born from the womb. Their hair long and sparkling. Their hair old and rough. The Fates twirl a ball of yarn. Each strand a life, each strand a story, a universe unto itself. Their weaving goes on. They have no life, no purpose but this. Or so the story goes. Written on pots of clay, written by the first of the civilizations with foresight. They got the gist of it right. They got the specifics wrong. The fates do not twirl a ball of yarn. There is none. There are three. They are not fates. Though I suppose you could call them that too. Call them what you will. They are not hags. They are three. Born at the same time. They do not look the same. They are without gender. They each have a different role to play. One splits and forms the universe. One watches over time. The third, well the third, the third is I, dear reader. I write the tales. There is no ball of yarn. There are separate rooms. Three rooms where we each have our keep. Three rooms where we watch over the elements that make up your world. We are not vindictive. We are not jealous. We just are. This is our role. We were born for this. Such is our purpose. Purpose is a powerful thing. Those of you that don’t have it, well, those of you that don’t have it suffer. Badly. You were written down as social creatures. Most of you. You lose your way when you lose your connections. As universes, most of you thrive when surrounded by others. The gravity of others keeps you grounded, keeps you sane. Otherwise you will float away, weightless, into the arms of depression. Most of you. The lucky ones. The ones we did not not write it for, I did not write it for. There are very few. But there are some who do not need social interaction. Those lucky few can live as lone wolves. But I digress. I do not know why I was chosen. I write far too long, and far too much. But I suppose your lives are tangential. I suppose that makes me the perfect candidate. I was not chosen as much as I was created. For this purpose. So I suppose this is what was required. The tangential ruins and scribbles of your lives are somehow necessary. Makes them more complex. Makes them more interesting