A Dialogue. - Chess Forums

Got-Dead

Nov 20, 2025

0

#1

Once, there was a person living in a shack in the middle of nowhere, away from the rest of the people in houses, surrounded by

His own waste, symbols of his stagnancy.

The things she loves.

Day after day they did the same things, over and over, completing meaningless tasks slowly working towards her future.

Is he really? I find the idea that he would actually do something useful with his life quite funny, really.

Knock it off. We both know that she’s doing her best.

But you see, they held a terrible secret that was known to everyone but acknowledged by none, and that was that they only had four years to live, to make their mark on this world before they moved to the next.

Like we’re supposed to think he’s special. Everyone has four years to live here.

People are different in their approach. We can’t make blanket statements like that.

I wonder who this we you speak of is.

But for all of his efforts-

Really. Efforts. That’s what we’re calling them? Efforts? He exudes effort the same way a turtle does walking a hundred miles. Sure, the turtle might be putting in its idea of effort, but is it really getting anywhere?

Going by your analogy, a turtle is just built like that. You can’t make a turtle the fastest animal on land by any amount of techniques or effort, circumstances out of its control made it slow, you’re blaming it for something it doesn’t have any amount of control over.

he still didn’t get anywhere with his goal, to make his mark, to connect with others. Six months passed by, a whole eighth of his time left, and his shack was still isolated from the rest, doing the same thing day by day.

And all he did was cover up his deficiencies, his flaws, his mistakes and blunders with excuses and petty distractions, never, NEVER addressing the root of his problem.

Being confronted with the realization that you’re going to die in four years and ascend to the final world is a big realization. Sure that happened with the last three years on the last world, but this is the final one. She stands on the brink of her destiny, the culmination of her life so far. Can’t you spare some sympathy?

What’s with you?

What?

You defend him, even when it’s inexcusable. I bet if he were to shoot himself in the foot, you would cover it up with excuses, lies, and whatever to make it seem like he wasn’t at fault.

You blame her for everything. Acting like every single misfortune that could have ever happened to anyone else was her fault, like she’s uniquely guilty or something.

You say that I blame him for things that she can’t do. Like I'm out to get him. Like I’m an evil voice bent on terrorizing him with visions of the future. That’s wrong. Dead wrong. But you did say something that I did agree with.

You can’t be saying-

He needs to hear this. You are everything that is wrong with yourself. Truly. Yes, I am saying that the wrongdoings that are visited upon him are his fault, products of his negligence, of his wastefulness. But there’s no point in saying anything more. He won’t listen, and neither will you. A whole six months of the four years he has are gone, dust in the wind, and yet nothing, no progress toward his goal.

Of course I won’t listen. What’re you saying? You talk of problems, of supposedly unsolvable problems but don’t offer solutions. You blame her for things out of her control without elaborating. You blame but don’t help. Besides, an eighth of the time left on this world might be gone, but there’s still so much time, three and a half years to reach out and connect with others, three years to turn it around and contribute to the goal, to make small increments or large leaps. There’s hope. Three and a half years is more than you think.

Three and half years is less than you think. When he lays in his bed, a day before his ascension, having accomplished nothing, doing nothing, and progressing toward nothing, just seven hours before his death, is there enough time then? I assure you, three years is nothing. We’ve already passed six months in the blink of an eye. Still, he’s done nothing. Still sitting there, complacent, rotting from the inside out.

What’s your problem? What’s with YOU?

…

You speak of her like she’s a dead man walking, like she’s already gone, like there’s nothing left to salvage. Why do you insist that she can’t change? That she can’t mature? That whatever she does, it doesn’t matter?

Because I tried to get him to change. Back, back in the last world, the three years. I’m sure you remember. Three years. Nothing. I talked to him at night. I’m sure you did too. It was obvious. I told him what he needed to do, to make things better, to work towards his future.

She was successful at it, in the world before, in the three years before.

No. No he wasn’t. He made “friends”, sure. But not really. He talked to them sometimes. He knew them, somewhat, halfway. But he failed in the last world. He failed spectacularly. I tried. I tried so hard. I told him what he had to do, gave him speeches, begged on my knees for his prosperity, offered him priceless advice, gave him steps on what to do, and was met with empty promises and half lies, told that yes, he would take steps to better himself and to secure his future.

And he did none of it. He held God in his hands and let it slip through the cracks of his fingers as he turned a willfully blind eye. Everyone was telling him what to do, offering him a way out. Every greeting, every handshake, every interaction was a hand outstretched to him, offering him a way out, a friend to laugh and joke around with. But he turned a blind eye to every one of them, covering it up with excuses, excuses, excuses.

His parents tried to help him, you know. They advised him, told him what he needed to know, did everything they could and turned around, striking his own ill-fortuned path into the jungles, drowning out help and offers with blaming and willful ignorance, alienated everyone around him and squandered every single opportunity he was given, every wise example discarded and ignored, burying his head in the sand.

He made plenty of mistakes, stupid stupid mistakes, hundreds of them. Scored upon scores. But he never learned from them. Not once. He made the same mistakes, committing the same stupid acts over and over and over again and again, never learning his lesson. He is given everything, and yet loses it at the sign of any adversity, any challenge. It’s embarrassing, really. Every time I look in the mirror, I’m disgusted. How can I live like that? Like a leech, a parasite that does nothing but siphon off of other’s victories and greatness. I see how I look and a wave of nausea crashes over me every time. Too afraid to embrace it, too scared to reject it.

She’s better than most-

There we go, with the excuses again. Again and again confronted with his flaws he doesn’t look them in the eye, he curls up in the corner, blaming everyone but himself, making more and more excuses like a wave of lies and falsehoods, living in his own made up world. You’re an enabler of that, you fashion a great many of these excuses, bail him out of responsibility every time.

When we die for the final time, there will be nothing left. No one to mourn us. No relatives to cry, no friends to give speeches about our faked personas, nothing. We will be forgotten, like a speck of water in the ocean, just another cheap tombstone in miles and miles of graveyard. Ignorance truly is a blessing. To know more is a punishment, to know that you are and always will be inferior.

I disagree. When the froglet leaves the pond to behold and learn and know of the sun for the first time, it is a reward like no other. When the infant sees the twin celestial bodies of sun and moon for the first time, its mind does not attempt to reject it in favor of ignorance.

I’m done, I think. Done trying to do something that can’t be done. You think that he will redeem himself suddenly, see a vision and make all the right decisions at the right time. He won’t. He’ll continue in his stubbornness, swimming in a fake world of his own imagining, grasping at straws and reassurances that he’s better than someone else, complacent in being in the 50th percentile. When the four years are up, he will be remembered for nothing, will ascend with nothing, and die with nothing.

You say that it's the only possible course of action. That human beings are unchangeable, that her fate is predetermined.

I know it is. It’s too late. Maybe he will change. Maybe. But not in time. Day by day he will work for nothing and be proud of his wastefulness, until the four years are up, and he looks back and sees the truth. That it was all for naught. That he had every opportunity, but drowned in his own greed and inability.

There you go again, trying to catch the moon in the water, seizing the flower in the mirror. Crying yourself to sleep, lamenting but never striving to make yourself better. The rain pours, the clock ticks and tocks the seconds of your life away as you watch and wait, doing nothing, wasting and rotting, telling yourself that it will all be better tomorrow, as if a miracle is to suddenly appear from your hoping, crying and praying. You look at your form in the mirror, staring at it, and yourself, despair, despair, thinking

I hate myself.

But I can’t help but think of brighter days, of a better me.

Seconds will slip by, are slipping by, have slipped by, time measured in seconds, days and hours, always a dialogue between yourself, always asking, what will you be? What will you do? Will you choose to be better?

Tick, tock.