There is such a thing as the chaos of fate—an endless-fingered glove, a maze of only dead-end paths. And there is such a thing as living separated from life—not by the escaping of death, but by the living outside of life in a place where its wholesome reaches fail. There is such living and there is such a place. The living is like being a dog: aware, emotional, but void of self purpose. The place is like a beehive—active, inconstant, volatile.
Life is linear: it runs from one point of time to another while immuring its contestants in a singular transition at any given moment, placing them on a one-track outcome: fate. There are boundaries in place—rules. There cannot be multiple futures or multiple endings. There cannot be purpose beyond what is attained in a two-dimensional timeline. But if not governed by these rules, then what? Life is these rules, and so to be outside of these rules is to be outside of life, and this uncertain place of living outside of life is the chaos of fate.
The chaos of fate was my home, and had been since I ingested into my body the myriad of Obstructions of Fate from the Devoted Man’s Bazaar. Life disgorged me in a mass of unscrupulous discord. Every particle in my body—down to the most miniscule—was pitted against every other particle in my body. There was a battle within me; every part and piece of me wanted to go a different way, make a different choice, follow a different fate. By these things alone, I was not human; I was Knave—a servant to pandemonium.
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