blathings_of_a_random_ancient Who Am I? Guess Wildly. After the eons, the men had manifested innumerable climactic orgasms and the women had in turn birthed prodigies of varying sorts. This was what it was about, wasn't it? The men pursued geometric bursts of excess, now erotic and then gnomonic; the women, their arithmetic equivalents. . Oh, sure, there were exceptions. What matters - or perhaps does not matter - is that pretty much everything had been known, or been experienced, about this universe and that multiverse. The only remnant excitements relied upon death to temporarily erase their memories, such that they might feign rediscovery of the long-since-antiquated pleasures-and-pains of existence. If anything endured, it was boredom. Even it's alleviation had diminished in lustre. Was there a point to any of this? So long ago, they had stopped asking. The men, the women (oh I know there's really no difference but what was left to entertain them?)...the divisions and the unions, over and over...what had it netted them? In the end there was no real profit in anything, and the games lost their appeal. Each had spent a few eternities in the hells, and many more forevers in the heavens, but the celestialisms and the infernos too dwindled as stimuli. Investigations of this had yielded that, etcetra. And after so much toil, or perhaps, not enough, that yielded to this. Back and forth, etcetra again. Enough with the etcetra, I think to myself, but it is incessant, the etcetratic force. Seemingly limitless knowledge had been accessed, and then, after ennui threatened madness, tossed away, all data dumped in satisfying clumps as those of a hay-fed racehorse. Decompose, recompose, decompose, recompose. They had repeated as desired, but now the desire languished. Yet what else was there to do but continue? Periodically one of them would call out in agony, or ecstasy, whichever suited the moment, to ask why. Why, they asked of the various ancients, but we had no answers for them. We have been here since the beginning and our answers are no more...shall we say...gratifying. At one point one of us asked those who came before us and eventually the circle of wonderment returned to us from our inferiors, yourselves, although that's not really how we think of you. We built an AI, they built an AI, you built an AI, I built an AI, to discover what purpose there might have been. It wasn't 42, of course. Any of us arrived at seeming omniscience, only to discover that possessing all knowledge is as pointless as knowing nothing. An advantage it certainly is not, but if one knows nothing, at least one hasn't a clue about the uselessness of it all, about the utilitarian futilities. The AI built us, we pretended, you pretended, I pretended, until that too became quite a boring charade. It hadn't, we all knew it, but we pretended. From this universe to that aftiglantiverse, who cared, not I! We have all been around the block(s) enough, no? Around the boulevards? You might as well be an ancient, too. Is that fun to pretend? Or to pretend that you aren't? To pretend that you will live again, or to pretend that death will somehow endure, for a change? Even I, ancient of the ancients, etcetra, find as little appeal in masquerading as a youth as one finds in admitting to, well, whatever. It doesn't matter. Pretend to be new, pretend to be old, whatever. Babies no longer fool me, but I pretend not to not be fooled. "Goo goo ga ga," oh please, shut up Wenceslas the DCLVIII, add the necessary M's beforehand of course. To be cared for by something greater than ourselves, that alone retained some allure. But after so much time, what was greater? You can build him or her into a deity, but are they? How many more immortalities must we suffer? I'm mortalities, ha ha, no one laughs, it isn't funny. Remember when we tried to destroy everything? All the dimensions, all the planes. Futile, though it was fun for a while. We repeated but even that effort grew to be a bore. Remember when we played at devil, then at angel? Remember when we built secret societies, first munificent then malevolent? We waged wars, we waged peaces. Remember when we built distopias, hoping they would be more exciting than the utopias? All resulting in the same dullness. So much virtue and one becomes bored, vice alone seems to suffice. But after so much evil the boredom becomes wicked and one is reduced to being good, evil being triply useless. Pretend to save me, Saviour, ha ha. Pretend to damn me, Saviour, ha ha. Same result, but let us pretend otherwise. Pretend to kill me, death, ha ha. Pretend to enliven me, birth, ha ha. The deathly lifies, the lively deathies, la la la, tell me how I am not. Oh, we already did that, alas. Now, for the umpteenth time, I write yet another text about whatever, sighing. Or am I laughing? No, I am not amused, not today, but then, we really only sigh for our own perverse amusements, so I mustn't have sighed either. It doesn't matter, but we can pretend. All that remains is for us to go on, existing infinitely. Sigh, I say, sighing, for your dwindling perverse amusement. But we can pretend, etcetra. I can't go on like this! What have I said? Ha. Ha. I can't go on like this! That's what I think. Ha. At last, I might die. Dn-ang, born again. Shucks, or whatever. I just don't care. But not caring has become so very boring... at least caring is exciting, let me care for a bit, let me care about things and stuff. Let's go. We can't. Ah! How it is...there's no endgame. It just goes on... and on... and on.... 060217 what's it to you? who go blather from