There’s an ancient myth of immortality that inhabits the minds of tyrants and farmers alike. For the ultimate power – for the ability to avoid their ending. A river that never erodes its bank; a flame that never burns away its wick.
For the twisted, the demented, there’s something more. Mere elevation of life holds no appeal, but the fictional, the bread and circuses of the modern world – that, is something worthy of eternal continuation. The last word should never come, there must always be a new chapter, another episode, one more level.
Because there’s something primal in these fictions, these stories. From the first flames of bonfires, humanity has shared tales, the characters becoming legendary, and the audience holds them in their hearts for the rest of their lives.
We learn to love these fakes, in our own sick way. We learn what they desire, what they fear, what they love and what they hate. We learn about their background, their hopes, their struggles. And through it all, we empathize with them. We cheer for their success and feel remorse at their failure. They’re a one-way friend, one that speaks to you, but that you can never speak back to – but there’s no need to talk back. You just need to be with them, even from a distance. That’s enough.
And then, when the story ends? It elicits a pang in our hearts. It’s as if the characters we’ve loved have died, buried in their Happily Ever After. Our distorted minds, so illogical, take this metaphorical death with a weight. We grieve, perhaps not with the fervor of one who has truly lost a loved one, but we grieve, nonetheless. We are left then with an emptiness, a chasm that can never be filled in exactly the same way; a hole that gnaws at our very core for days, weeks, months – even years.
But why? These people are fake, they were contrived. These worlds are mere imagination, none of it is real. Why can we not, us ****** few, simply throw it away like a used consumable? Why the grief? This lingering pit in our stomachs, this hole in our hearts?
Why?
Why?
Why must it end at all? Why can’t we, hand on book and eyes on screen, make happy evermore? Why can’t we stay wrapped up in our little fantasies, surrounded by our paper friends, swept up in the dream? Why can’t blinking pixels become the north star to our joy; why can’t the credits, our lullaby? Does it really have to end?

Of course, it does. It always does. The book will have its final chapter; a movie, its final scene; a game, its final interaction. And left in its place will be the ending. The ending that it was all leading up to. The entire point of the story in the first place.
And us twisted, demented, distorted, sick, ****** few, will hate it. We’ll cover our eyes and ears like a petulant child. We’ll reject the ending, taking up pen and keyboard to make our own path, to extend the escape. Forsaking the creator, we know we can do better. We can, somehow, keep the flame lit, keep the wicker solid, keep the wax formed.
And in doing so, we can live forever, in a dream of our own design. We know it’s illogical: we’ll be stuck in the past, and everyone else will be marching towards the future. But the pain of this loss, however illogical, denies us any other recourse. All we want, all we need, is to float in an endless narrative, accompanied by the ones who were never real to begin with. To bask in their wonderful perfection, to find the comfort and companionship we know they can provide. We’ll never have to be alone again; nobody will have to die.
We’ll be deluded,

but we’ll be happy.
And for us, maybe that isn’t so bad.