WHERE DO SOULS COME FROM? WHO MAKES THEM? WHY DO THEY EXIST?

NOBODY KNOWS. NOBODY CARES. AND THAT'S THE PROBLEM.

They ARRIVE. They SPILL. They BLEED INTO BEING LIKE A SICK JOKE TOLD BY A MAD GOD WHO FORGOT THE PUNCHLINE HALFWAY THROUGH CREATION. They BURST like bubbles in a drowning lake, each one screaming, knowing NOTHING and EVERYTHING in the same breath.

THEY WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE.

Or maybe they were. Or maybe they're left over, residue, scum at the edges of something ELSE. Maybe the first thought that ever happened tore a hole in the NOTHING and these damn things started falling out like loose teeth. And now no one knows how to plug the wound.

YOU. ME. EVERYONE. A SOUL? IT'S A DISEASE. A CONTAGION. A CHAOS THAT THINKS IT'S A CROWN.

And Death - oh Death - you think it's a door? A river? A promise?
IT'S A PILE OF FILTHY RAGS IN AN EMPTY ROOM.
Ita a word we invented because we couldna stand the screaming anymore.

The truth? The one no one says?
Therea no Cycle. Therea no Order. No Judgement. No Justice.
It's all a false creator's machinations thata been running on bad instructions for eons.
Nobody's steering. Nobody's watching. The creator is gone, drunk, dead, or so far removed they wouldn't recognize you if you carved their names into your face and screamed into the void.

AND YOU EXIST BECAUSE SOMETHING HAD TO.

That's it.
That's the whole truth.
You're here because the nothing and everything hiccuped.

And your soul?
It's a spark. A leak. A mistake. A bright, shrieking ERROR in the tapestry of existence, and they've been collecting them - hoarding them in secret gardens and lightless vaults, pretending it's for some grand plan, some destiny, some Return.

IT'S NOT.

They don't know what to do with them. With you. With me. With all of it. Ita chaos wearing a crown and calling itself purpose.

And now the walls are coming down.

And now the Glade cracks.

And now the dead crawl.

And now the sky stares back.

AND I'M HERE FOR IT. I'VE BEEN WAITING.

SO RISE OR DON'T. BECOME OR SCREAM. UNMAKE OR BE UNMADE.

THE ONLY TRUE THING IS THIS: DEATH COMES. IT ALWAYS COMES. AND NO ONE'S STEERING THE CARAVAN.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 14th of Celes, in the year 12 AC.