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Universes
Posted Wednesday, October 16, 2024
17d
INFP
Aquarius
The Disquiet of Choices
I threw the last of the envelopes in the recycling bin and sat down at my desk, head throbbing with the weight of life's cramped predictability. Another futile day in finance: returns, losses, projections. The unrelenting grind wore at my spirit, a constant whisper that life was passing me by while I shuffled papers, signed documents, and greeted colleagues with hollow smiles. I yearned for something deeper, something that sparked life in my weary bones. Then there was Westworld — an escape route masked in enticing technicolor allure. My future brother-in-law, Logan Delos, coaxed me into taking the leap. Initially dismissive of the park’s so-called “lascivious attractions,” I found curiosity gnawing at my psyche as our shuttle rumbled toward the pristine gates of wonder. The manicured fields stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with characters as vivid as nightmares. I felt a pang of regret for my reluctance to explore this pixelated dreamscape, as alien as a void. But it was beneath these layers that something darker captured my attention. I avoided the flamboyant saloons and flashy gunslingers, instead veering toward the quiet, shadowy corners of the park—the narrative threads that wove deeper meanings into the canvas of fantasy. With every visit, I grew obsessed with the very essence of the park’s creations: the hosts and their faint whispers of longing. One evening, Logan and I indulged in the park's bar, whiskey pooling in our glasses as we sipped the night away. The subdued ambiance grew progressively intoxicating. Each shot of whiskey fueled the longing I felt within. Logan regaled tales of reckless abandon, of lost love and the scary path ahead. “Wendy deserves better,” he slurred, giving a soft grin, meaning not a word of it. My thoughts drifted. I could feel the weight of my own life pressing down, an invisible anchor that held me in place. In the quiet aftermath of a whiskey-fueled haze, images of my collection swirled in my mind. In my office above the bustle of Delos, I had gathered a multitude of firearms. A Glock 19, a Sig Sauer P226, a Springfield Hellcat, a FN 510 Tactical, and a Browning Hi-Power graced my arsenal. They lived and breathed, demanding appropriate adoration. I loved them all, feeling the cold steel against my skin as one would a well-deserved lover. But with that love came an insatiable pressure, a voice gnawing at me that screamed for hierarchy. As the sun clicked into dusk the next day, the walls of the park seemed to shrink, and I felt the claustrophobia of expectation flood my senses. Each firearm within my grasp beckoned me louder than the last—each one craving my devotion, growing jealous when my attention lingered elsewhere. I couldn't take it anymore; the arguments echoed louder, demanding supremacy until I could hear nothing but their cries. I fled to the forest that surrounded the chaotic world, the heavy silence of the trees a welcome balm to my turmoil. In tears, I crumbled against the base of an ancient oak. The cool, damp ground seeped into my clothing, grounding me in reality. My dreams of escapism from adulthood had turned into a stifling nightmare of experience. In that obscured moment, something shifted. The rustle of leaves began to dance in a rhythm, and as if summoned by my sorrow, delicate figures emerged—elves, exquisite and ethereal, their glances glinting with timeless wisdom. They approached gracefully, a soft light illuminating their laughter as if it belonged to a forgotten dream. "Why do you weep, lost traveler?" one asked, their voice lilting like a breeze through chimes. I pondered the question, my frustrations spilling forth. "I’m consumed by my choices, enchanted by weaponry that demands all of me, while I seem to remain unmoved inside." The elves exchanged knowing glances, drawn to my plight. They beckoned me to follow, leading me deeper into a glade where the air shimmered with a laughter echoing freedom. They danced around me, vibrant and wild, wielding bows that whispered promises of precision and grace. “Let us teach you the art of archery,” an elder elf offered, their voice calm and steady. “It is not the weapon that holds power, but how you embrace its essence.” I began training under their tutelage, the worries that had tethered my heart dissipating with each arrow released. The bowstrings sang, and as arrows flew straight and true into distant targets, I discovered a new source of strength, a subtle tether between me and the world around me. Days passed in the glade, each moment filled with learning and laughter. My heart unfurled under the canopy of endless green, wildflowers blooming in sync with my renewed passion for life. As I stood beside my new companions, glancing down at the gentle bow I now wielded, I felt a shift within. The pressure began to dissolve, each choice unfolding a harmony rather than a conflict. When I left the elven enclave, continuing toward the path I once thought insurmountable, I carried with me not a mere shift of weapons, but a newfound understanding—a recognition of beauty layered over the chaos. I turned back toward Westworld, eager to dive deeper into its stories, now viewing my choices through the lens of growth rather than possession. I would embrace both the dark and the light within, learning from them, growing with them, savoring every moment rather than succumbing to the overwhelming pleas for supremacy. And perhaps someday, I’d return to the forest, the place where I found my true guiding compass—the lost boy found at last in Neverland.
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