world in my hand

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!

Poem - Facsimiles

Facsimiles

Once again I’m at the dance
in the company of like minds
though the crowd fills the room
I see the gaps in their midst

a memory inserts the missing ones
from the span of long lost years
once the corporal in my grasp
now I wonder if it was real

a cast of hundreds should be here
in some ways I sense them near
by physical form and moving grace
time is shifted, my place in space

through the faces of those present
I see the echoes from the past
they’d be older by quite a bit
now made younger in my presence

the music calls us to the floor
I’ll step between two worlds
once the bygone, now this instance
take my hand we’ll venture forth

there’s the soiree I’d like to share
a quick looks freezes time
confirming longing held to heart
they’re only copies, facsimiles.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170523.

I wrote a draft of “Facsimiles” while at the May 2017 LEAF festival. The poem is about the many people I’ve enjoyed dancing with before, and how they are missed now. 

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They get gold rings, eventually.