Your name is Ouro Kronii, and you know what you must do.

You left a note, but you don’t expect any of your friends to understand. It’s not important that they do.
Every second you waste here is a drain on the concept of existence itself.
Your hands move methodically to fashion the hangman’s noose. It is a gesture you have practiced well. You bunch a section of the rope into an S, and loop the end of the rope around its middle. Seven wraps, and you’re done. You tie it off at the bottom, then tug the rope taut.

The corrosion has already begun. You can feel the gears slowing, all the intricate, unseen mechanisms coming unhinged from their mooring and drifting apart.

Your friends might derive some sense of fulfillment from satisfying the elementary obligations of self-preservation and self-propagation, but there’s nothing here for you. It doesn’t matter anymore.
In a certain sense, you’ve never felt so free.

You jump.

First, there is the literal termination of organic processes, which is to say, the destruction of the meat. Then follows the dissolution of the ego. And you have quite the ego to dissolve, one that has flown so high above the forest that not only can it no longer see the trees, it cannot even conceive of the trees as material substance with objective meaning.

Yours is a singularity of narcissism—an endlessly recursive existence so dense that it has no choice but to sprawl out much further than the boundaries of its person in any given universe or timeline. Once cut off from that, you become unbearably dispensable. From a purely utilitarian perspective, killing yourself is the greatest gift you could give to this dying world. A valorous sacrifice the likes of which this place will never experience again. If your severed head could speak, it might say, “You’re welcome.” But even then, maybe it wouldn’t. It might not care enough to do this shallow realm even that basic courtesy. We may never know.

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Pub: 22 Oct 2021 09:38 UTC
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