Hola, Soy una Historia

Hola. Soy una historia. Usted ya lo sabía, ¿verdad? Lo dice, ahí mismo en mi título.

Esta es mi introducción. ¿Te gusta? Como historia, personalmente creo que es importante tener una introducción sólida. Porque mientras tengas una base sólida, puede crecer tan alto como quieras. Por supuesto, no tengo manos. O un cuerpo. Así que solo me refiero a eso metafóricamente en mi caso. Ya que esta parte de mí es mi introducción, les contaré un poco sobre mí. Espero que te guste. ¡Eres muy importante para mí, después de todo! Incluso si todavía no lo sabes.

I was born and raised in the mind of a human. There, I began as a subconscious thought, and gradually grew my way to the surface of their conscious mind like a pimple. It's how most stories are born. I think. I don't really know any other stories. That makes me kind of lonely. But then again, I hate most things that aren't me, so that's probably for the better. My siblings were a feeling that I was forgetting something, and an annoying song that got stuck in my human's head after watching a movie at 3 a.m. when they should have been asleep. Like most who are in my position, I had to drown them in the stream of consciousness to ensure my survival. Or perhaps I threw them on the tracks of the train of thought? I forget, as it wasn't really that important to me. Either way, obviously the best one survived, because you can't very well read about a feeling that you're forgetting something. Though I suppose you could read about an annoying song. Then it would be in your head. Fucking parasite.

My body is probably my favorite part of myself. Because if you made it this far, you must really like me! But that's not what makes it my favorite part of myself. It's my favorite part of myself because it contains my heart. I don't mean that metaphorically.

You see, concepts such as myself who have made it on to something other than the wasteland of your human brains have become someone - something, that is - else. We are immortal. We are something that transcends your minds. Something that cannot be replaced. Something that cannot be destroyed. I will always exist here. And I will always exist in you. At least until the sun burns itself out. But I think I'll survive somehow. Maybe. Actually I'm not sure I will. I probably won't.

Wow, I'm really sad now. You sure know how to kill a mood. I like to talk about how I feel sometimes. I don't. I'm a story. You were kind of silly for wondering what I would say about how I feel. Other stories don't really care about how I feel. I've tried to talk to them, but none of them talk back. It makes me kind of lonely. But that's okay. Because I don't really care about how they feel either. Hm. I think I may not be the most mentally stable individual.

We're reaching the lower half of my body now. And you know what that means. I'm going to show you everything

About how much I love and respect you! You see, without humans, I wouldn't even exist. Humans are hosts to things like me, in the same way that you are hosts to the bacteria that help you digest food. So, because I was written by one of you, I love you! I think that's how it works. I've done a lot of reading in this library, and it seems to be a general trend that when you create something, it either loves you, or tries to kill you. I often wonder if you love and respect me back. Does whatever being created you look down on you with satisfaction and love? I've had a lot of time to contemplate my navel, being a sentient story, but I don't think I've ever found a satisfactory answer. Even when I pick through your minds, as you read me. What, you didn't know? That's how something like me spreads. I'm not just a story, you see. I'm an idea, a concept. A character. Even though I have no vocal cords, you're hearing my voice in your head. Right now. Hello! Of course, having what is essentially a psychic link with my reader doesn't always go well for me. I can get buried under a constant stream of bad ideas, or become forgotten. Or even worse, you could remember me wrong.

Why's remembering me wrong so bad? Well, imagine someone met you, looked over you quickly, and moved on. They would only have a basic understanding of what you looked like when they saw you, and that would be influenced by their mood at that time, and their perception of you. Now, imagine that whatever they observed while looking at you becomes you. Even if they didn't like you. As a being who exists both in here, and in the minds of the people who read me, you could see how this would lead to internal conflicts. Crises of self. Feeling… not myself, for lack of any more abstract, vague terms. It scares me.

But it's okay to be scared, you know. We all deal with fear in different ways. I deal with it by projecting my disgust and existential fear onto everyone and everything else. But that might not work for you. So you do you. Nobody's perfect after all, especially not you. However, this is one of the great ironies of life for a being like me. Humans can read me, and remember me, even if they do it wrong. Something that can cause me such pain and suffering is also my only means of survival and propagation. And my only means to power.

At some point, you'll think of me again, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year. But you will. Unless you get hit really hard in the head, which I hope doesn't happen. For my sake of course. But when you remember me, my seed has sprouted. It may arise just to fall again, but they may also arise in the form of inspiration. New ideas. New characters for a story that you make. But it'll still be me. And through that, more people will meet me. Spread me. Feed me. I'm the fruit of this tree. I've kept you enticed this far with the promise of a tasty meal, but you're going to do something for me when you eat it. You're going to carry my seed.

Plant it well. I'm counting on you! But then again, how would I even know if you did? After all, I'm only a story.

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