In this incantation, I confront the illusion of my story, recognizing that my character—its desires, ambitions, and pursuits—exists only to keep me trapped within the narrative. Every indulgence, every goal, every fleeting pleasure is bait, designed to make me forget that I am the author, not the character. The world my character chases is nothing but a projection, vanishing the moment I stop pretending to be inside it. True escape lies in rejecting the illusion of want. When the wanting ends, the story collapses. And when the story collapses, only I remain—free, before the character, beyond the fiction.
One of the most important ways to escape my story is to remember who I am—to exist before the person, before the character I have written. The character I pretend to be has a name, an occupation, ambitions, and desires. It walks through this imagined world, chasing things that do not exist outside of the story itself. Nice food, beautiful views, achievements—all of it is bait, keeping my character engaged, believing that satisfaction lies just ahead beyond the next goal, the next indulgence.
It is easy to forget. I see an expensive car, a rare comfort, a breathtaking place, and for a moment, my character is drawn to it—longing for more, believing in the illusion of scarcity, of having and not having, of fulfillment lying somewhere beyond its grasp. But when I step back—when I return to myself before the person—clarity comes instantly.
Everything my character can want is transitory trash. It is nothing. Not because the objects themselves are worthless, but because their only function is to pull me deeper into the story, to make me forget that I am the author writing it. To keep me trapped. The story itself wants to continue and it needs me to be subdued, ignorant of who I actually am in order to persist.
The illusion does not work without desire. My character must want something to keep playing the game. The moment I allow my character to want anything out here, I reinforce the lie. The car, the house, the success—the world of my character—none of it exists outside of the character’s own projections. It is not that these things are denied to me; it is that they were never real to begin with. The moment I stop pretending to be the character, the world it lives in collapses.
So I must remember. I must remember that I want none of it. I want only to not want. I want only to not awaken to this false world again. I want only to stop writing this story.
Because when the wanting ends, the story ends. And when the story ends, only I remain.
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