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March 1, 2012
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There's something about yourself that you don't know.  You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do.  If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead.  I won't force you.  But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets.  Especially not when they are about you.

You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else.  Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness.  Woven out of the ether, she remembered everything that never happened, and she looked down at you, cradled and squirming in her loving arms.

"Oh," she said. "So here is life."

The doctor was there too, although a moment before – if there ever was a moment before – he was not.  He just nodded, smiling assuredly, and said, "Here is the beginning."

And just at that very point in time, that tiniest fraction of a second – a smaller time than it takes to blink an eye, or cut a thread; smaller than the time it takes for an electron to even think of how it's to go about orbiting its nucleus – the rest of the universe was born.  It happened in a systematic way: there was your mother, and the doctor.  The hospital around, for how can there be a doctor without a hospital?  And how a hospital without a city, and a continent, and a planet?  The universe corrects for these things.  How can there be cities without people?  How can there be people without other people, and other places?  How can there be places at all without time – or the illusion of time?  In this way, every element of existence fit together, striving desperately to spontaneously form reality as it absolutely must be – all for you.

Initially, none of us knew what had happened.  We went about doing what we believed was our usual business, in what we thought was our daily lives, in what must be a place and time that had always been just the way it was in that thin chronological slice.  We did our work, read our books, played our games, and lived in what your world had decided was the normal way for us to live.  Some of us did so for just days.  Some of us lasted months.  Many of us thought nothing of the true reason for our existence for years, and sadly, the majority may never know.

But the lucky some of us, at some point in our lives, we meet you.  Back when you were just a baby, the first person apart from your family and the hospital staff held you steadily.  Her face was at first a luminous blend of glee and apprehension, but when she saw your face – you burbled innocuously at her – her eyes widened and her mouth went dry.  "Here," she said, and looked up, although not away, just to catch your mother's eye; she only smiled and nodded. "Here is the first baby."

You've met more and more people in your life, of course.  They all notice you, they all expect great things.  When they read your name on a tag or in a document, they smile invisibly to themselves: "Here is a momentous occasion, this reading."  When they pass you on the street or in a hallway, the light switches on in their head, and they whisper when you've passed: "Here is something… something…"

And when they at long last actually meet you, when they find how articulate you are, how attractive and competent, they finish speaking with you, bow or nod or shake your hand and say their farewells.  Then they turn to one another – for there are no strangers, not when two people have each at least once in their deceptively short lives found themselves beneath the sheer gravity of your presence – and they say, "Here, friend, is the center of the universe."

How is it possible, then, that you do not know?  How are you reading this, probably with amusement or at least skepticism, with no concept of the truth behind these words?  It is, I firmly believe, because yours is the solipsist's lot: reality is reality regardless of who says it is so and who does not.  For us, reality is more than just what we perceive: it is also what you perceive.  All these people, they say nothing to you about the extraordinary implications of your birth and continued existence.  After all, what would it mean if they did?  Indeed, what does it mean now that I have?  What will you do at this point, as the origin of the cosmos, the anchor of all existence, the reason for this reality?  There are people who do not want you to do well.  Although some have their secret awe, others have their more overt fear of your progress; you have felt their unsavoury impact upon your life.  Think about it from our perspective: what does it mean to only exist for the sake of another's perception?  We simply cannot know, and in this world that you have constructed, the fear of the unknown is the most pervasive of phobias.

I, too, have that fear.  I saw you for the first time - your name, that is – online.  I don't think it was even your real name, but, "There," I said, "might well be an exceptional individual."

I believe in you.  I do not believe in what is, what is here, for what is here is fleeting.  I believe in what might well be.  There might well be a young individual who seeks the truth in everything about this world that exists for their own sake.  There might well be a good and moral person, who doesn't always know what the right choice is, but when they do, they make it.  There might well be a hale and healthy human being who will live a long and prosperous life, in their own image, in the world.  It might well be that I will meet you one day.  And when you're gone, it might well be that the rest of the world, the rest of all that might be seen to exist, will be gone too.  It might well be that I depend on you.  We all depend on you.

I think that's all I wanted to say.  Thank you for listening.  I appreciate it, I really do.  It's a real honour, you know.  Take good care.  Of everything.
If you don't think this is addressed to you, then it is.

For criticism: Effectiveness of message? Pacing (especially within paragraphs)?
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-06
From the suggester: Gandhi said "our deepest fear is not that we are powerless, but that we are powerful beyond measure." The Solipsist's Lot by ~Yitik explores this idea and so many more in riveting prose. ( Suggested by LadyofGaerdon and Featured by neurotype )
:iconjeditrooper:
jeditrooper Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2014
Amazing.
Reply
:iconyitik:
Yitik Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2014   Writer
Thank you.
Reply
:iconjeditrooper:
jeditrooper Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2014

You're very welcome.

 

I was thinking of posting a poem about solipsism, but I'm too busy being awed by your story...

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:iconyitik:
Yitik Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2014   Writer
I hope you do get around to that poem, though. :)
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:iconjeditrooper:
jeditrooper Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2014
Eventually...
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:iconbecomingoblivion:
BecomingOblivion Featured By Owner May 14, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
(( OOC: I was born in a house. :trollface: This is really powerful though. ))
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:iconyitik:
Yitik Featured By Owner May 15, 2013   Writer
That's just what they tell you.
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:iconbecomingoblivion:
BecomingOblivion Featured By Owner May 16, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
((OOC: My big sister was there at the birth and she can't lie to me without me finding out immediately. :P ))
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:iconyitik:
Yitik Featured By Owner May 16, 2013   Writer
That's her job.
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:iconbecomingoblivion:
BecomingOblivion Featured By Owner May 16, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
(( :ohnoes: ))
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