The Transition of Author to the Host (Markiplier Ego What-If)

I was once known as the Author. My real name is of no concern; I write under this pseudonym as knowing my identity would inflict great risk on my person.

It was a title bestowed upon me, with powers with unforeseen consequences.

My eyes could see the future. My hands can write the events I want to control. My voice can bring it to life.

I was gifted.

I was powerful.

I had the ability to control life, but I had to write it down and read it aloud for it to happen. I could manipulate so many things, and the power that I grasped- it was overwhelming to a normal person. I saw so many possibilites to an event, to a human, yet I could choose what reality can happen. From the infinite realities, paradoxes and parallels, I could twist someone’s life and make it the way I want.

I loved every second of it.

So many books, I published. People loved it. They tell me, “it feels so real”. They don’t know it is. Naive fools, they were.

Looking back to it, I would not blame them. I succumbed to this power as well.
When characters start to rebel, you feel like you’re losing hold. Yet I am the Author. I was not go down so easily.

…Would I?

It was a mistake. It was a mistake that I shouldn’t have done yet I did due to sheer arrogance and pride. I looked at my future and its infinite possibilities. I readied my pen beside me and decided, “Out of all lives I could control…I could control mine, and make my life the best. Twist everything into my control, let it spiral into my palm, and hold it with an iron grip.”

I should’ve seen the repercussions of my actions without using my power.

With how I was and the path I was taking at the time, I was connected to everyone else; even those who weren’t even born yet. Those who even had died. I looked too far. Spiderwebs of millions of possibilities for each human and event on this planet that I will try to take control of. The things I saw… It drove me crazy.

It wasn’t only my end that I saw. It was The End. I know of the saying that "All things die eventually” but at what cost? I was not cruel to every one. I was only cruel to the characters that had that storyline.  To destroy humankind? What a disappointing ending. Cliche, and I did not become famous because I was cliche.

It was horrifying to see myself that way. Yet I couldn’t turn away. I doomed the world, wasn’t I pathetic? What had gone into me? What was going on with me?

Power had driven me to the deep end. I was doing my first step just by doing this, this horrible, unforgiving, neglectful, inconsiderate act!

And then, I knew what I had to do. I looked at myself, and made a decision I never thought I would ever do. I went to my writing desk, lost in my thoughts.

These eyes…. these eyes that made me see the future.

These hands that helped me write one’s life down.

This voice that brought the stories into reality.

I had to change the course of this world’s horrible ending, myself be damned. I had to write, write, write, write everything down.

I wrote endlessly. Planning the best course of action, for the best ending. I had to search the world and see who to control best for this world to be saved. My hands ached, begging for rest. I didn’t pay attention to it. They screamed in agony, days upon days writing. I steeled my nerves and continued.

My eyes, my eyes that saw the futures, they watered, dried up, and bled.  It was a disgusting mess to even stop to tie a strip of cloth around my eyes to cover them, and it was even more revolting that I had to replace and wash it all the time. The blood, they went everywhere when they fully soak the cloth. It was only through the years that I have spent writing was I able to accomplish my goal.

My voice, silenced, as I conserved my energy. White noise filled the room, and I realized how alone I am. So many characters yet no one that I really know of. So many characters yet they rebelled against me, angry at me.

The book, the last book I had to finish. The book that I know by heart. The book, that I know, even if I was not reading it directly, was already embedded on paper. The course of the world controlled by selected prominent figures. My plan to change the path that I had destroyed into a better one.

My eyes, bleeding endlessly, through several stained bandages wrapped around my head.

My hands, writing endlessly, a mangled mess, now resting on weary arms, never able to write anything anymore.

A sacrificial act by my own hand? What a surprise. A twist that I did not see. I have to hand it to fate, or maybe destiny, or just plain old, cruel life. You truly have made a perfect concoction of the definition of a cliffhanger.

I was done. Finally done.

A relieved sigh escaped me. Hopefully by the choices that I wrote down, a better ending will be achieved. All is left for me to do is to let the key players do their own part of this massive game, these series of programs of life.

All is left for me is to be the Host.

By this point, everything is a cliffhanger.
I opened my mouth, and spoke in a voice not louder than a whisper.
“Brought forward in order to confront a rising crisis, a man organizes a meeting….”

To the peeps I know who loves doing theories and whatnot: @lowat-golden-tower, @jeaniplier, @angstphilosophy, @s-t-s-g, @markired, and to anyone who would like to pitch in their thoughts, I’ll be glad to see!

Feast on Books.

I need Books
Like I need Food;
                   Which is to say I need them Frequently 
                   and According to my Taste.
                   I need them to Live
                   and if left bereft
                   I’ll perish into oblivion.

I need Books 
Like I need Food;
                   Their smell makes me salivate.
                   Some are Spicy, Sour, Sweet or Salty, 
                    like gossip among old friends
                   or memories I watched others make
                   While I sat in a corner turning pages.

                   Some are Bland and Unseasoned
                   like a Love that no longer remains;
                   A chewing gum, if you will,
                   that has lost all its flavor 
                   except for occasional Bitterness.

                    Some are Stale and Cold 
                    like Revenge being served 
                    From the Menu of my Bad choices
                    Others are Burnt
                    Like Bridges to a time that I long to return to
                    But Cannot.

                    Some I Crave   
                    Over and Over and Again and Again
                    Like an addict in a Rehab with signs of withdrawal
                    No recovery in sight,
                    And with every bite I take 
                    I let them Consume Me.
                    Such Delicious Irony.

                    Some I chew
                    Careful not to miss the subtle nuance of the Flavors
                    As I let each spoonful Enrich my soul
                    Others, I Swallow whole

                    I Digest them All
                    and Absorb what I need 
                    To Nourish Myself and Grow.

I need Books
Like I need Food;
                   Which is to say I need them to Survive
                   Without them I’m Unsatisfied
                   and the Hunger–
                   This Hunger that is wired deep within my biology
                   Drives me crazy, compels me to feed it every morsel I can find
                   Because If I don’t,
                   It will slowly starve me to Death. 

I need books
Like I need food;
                   So Feel free to join me for Dinner
                    I will let you take a bite from my plate
                   And I hope you’ll let me take a bite of yours.
                   While we Enjoy a Seven Course Meal
                   Of all kinds of Cuisine
                   with Desert afterward

After all,
Man Cannot live by Bread Alone.
So Join Me, Won’t You?


An Open Invitation to all my fellow Bibliophiles who love Books as muchas I do and can’t imagine a life without them. 


books in 2017  35?queen of hearts |  rainbowathon  #1  white cover |  wonder week  #12  fantasy

“My fight began when I was born to my father, who feared the day I would assume the throne, and I am safer in these woods than I ever was in his palace. I did not die today, so I will not fear death tomorrow.”