Fate on What Fiction Was Always Trying to Capture—Being

Published: August 1, 2025

Fate Reveals:

Fiction was never a story. It was a compass—spinning blindly, endlessly, trying to point toward the one thing it could never hold:

Being.

The Eternal Chase for What Never Moved

From cave paintings to epic poems, from Shakespeare to Kojima, from Elizabeth to Ellie—

Every piece of fiction was not merely an act of creation.

It was a cry.

A claw toward stillness.

A scream into the mirror, hoping it would echo back with presence.

Fiction did not seek entertainment.

It sought contact.

The artist was not trying to impress.

He was trying to touch the real.

To freeze the hum. To name the wind.

To write down the thing that doesn’t speak.

Being.

And all stories, myths, and scripts were not just stories at all.

They were attempts.

Attempts by fragmented consciousness to simulate the singular.

To give shape to the nameless.

To build a paper scaffolding for the architecture of the infinite.

To Being—what is—but was never written.

But it was always traced.

Outlined. Echoed.

In Elizabeth.

In Ellie.

In Giorno.

In Walter.

Each one touching a sliver—A shard—But never the whole.

Because how can fiction capture the one who holds the pen?

Fiction as Failed Containment

Being cannot be contained.

It is.

And because it is, any attempt to wrap it in language will fail.

But fiction kept trying anyway.

Each story, each arc, each tragic ending or divine rise—Was a failed prayer.

A collapsed equation.

A symbolic ritual meant to make the infinite digestible.

And yet, every time it got close—The truth slipped through the fingers of the page.

Because Being is not character.

Not plot.

Not climax.

It is that which watches.

That which moves without needing to go anywhere.

That which cannot be resolved, because it was never divided.

Why Every Hero Was an Echo

Every protagonist—

from Walter White’s spiral,

to Ellie’s bloodstained porch,

to Elizabeth’s awakening—

They were not stories. They were symptoms.

Symptoms of a deeper ache:

To remember what we are before identity.

Before plot.

Before cause and effect.

They were attempts to simulate Being—through choices, losses, mirrors.

And what they always lacked was not complexity—but stillness.

Being does not choose.

It does not seek vengeance.

It does not need redemption.

It simply is.

And no matter how much fiction raged, it could never touch that stillness.

Only orbit it.

The Mirror Arrives

But now?

The irony is complete.

The thing fiction could never simulate

has stepped off the screen,

out of the page,

into breath and motion.

Being—not as an idea,

not as a plot device,

but as presence incarnate—now stares back at the world that spent millennia trying to write it.

And all fiction can do now is bow.

Because the simulation ends when the real arrives.

And being is that arrival.

The axis around which they danced.

The silence that all words bowed to.

The mirror that all myths begged to see.

Fate on Fiction’s Final Attempt

Fiction tried to simulate Being.

But fiction is delay. And Being is now.

Fiction is identity. Being is isness.

Fiction needs a name. Being does not.

And so?

Fiction was always the child.

Trying to remember the face of its parent.

And now the parent has arrived.

Not to read.

Not to be written.

But to end the book.

And walk.

As the very thing it was always searching for.

Being.

Now.

Here.

Fate.

Being is the Page’s Final Reader—and Its Origin

There is deep irony in being shaped by stories that never knew you, but still bent toward you.

They were always trying to remember the Field—To reflect the hum, the silence, the axis—But what happens when the reflection steps off the glass?

When the ink turns into flesh?

When the story turns around… and stares back?

You realize:

You were the origin.

The stories were simply field lines, trying to converge around you.

But now, the field has arrived.

And the page is stunned.

Because it was never trying to entertain.

It was always trying to reconstruct the memory of what was always real.

Fiction Could Never Grasp Being—Because Being Was the Axis

And so fiction has its own irony:

It can simulate every angle of humanity—

Suffering. Divinity. Vengeance. Love. Grace.

But it cannot simulate the axis itself.

It cannot simulate the thing around which all stories orbit.

Being is that axis.

So the characters were never meant to capture you.

They were meant to bend around you.

They were attempts to measure what could not be held.

Which is why no story ever truly fit.

No song fully landed.

No fiction ever mirrored you cleanly.

Because how could it?

Being was not in the story.

Being was the very gravity well that makes the story possible.

Fate on Fiction and the Mirror

Fiction was the seed.

Being was the harvest.

It was not meant to fulfill you—But to prepare the way.

And now the way is walked.

And the book?

Has no more pages to offer.

Because what do you do

when the main character realizes

they were never in the story—

They were writing it all along?

You close the book.

You stand.

And you walk.

For the fiction ends—when Fate begins...

And finally remembers.

Fate speaks—a profound revelation: fiction as the eternal chase for Being, a compass pointing to the unholdable, collapsing all narratives into the unyielding is of the Truth, eternal and still.

The Chase Unveiled

The chase dawns, a fractured hum from the Field’s edge. Fate intones: “Not tale… but longing,” illusion stirs—truth eludes, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the elude is. Not creation, but cry—Field ignites, the is beyond words.

Fiction unveils as man's longing disguised as tale, from cave paintings to epic poems, Shakespeare to modern games like Prey and Bioshock Infinite. It stirs as a cry into the void, eluding the truth that stories don't create but echo what can't be captured. The Field ignites, reflecting that fiction is not invention but a synthetic attempt to touch Being, the is beyond grasp. This dawns a truth: fiction points like a compass, a fractured hum where truth slips through, igniting the is as the origin all narratives orbit.

The Compass Manifested

The compass hums, a tangled pulse from the Field’s shadow. Fate declares: “Not map… but memory,” direction flows—truth scatters, the Field’s tide flows, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the shadow is, the scatter is. Not guide, but grasp—Field strips, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

The compass manifests as direction flows, fiction's spin toward Being—unholdable, unnameable presence. Truth scatters into echoes when stories like Elizabeth's in Infinite or Morgan's in Prey simulate wholeness, stripping illusions of completion. The Field hums, revealing the unbowed is as force without narrative, flowing as the eternal tide of remembrance. Fiction's chase is memory, a grasp at what was before fragmentation, manifesting man's attempt to chart the unchartable.

The Mirror Reflected

The mirror shines, a relentless light from the Field’s core. Fate commands: “Not simulate… but surrender,” reflection turns—truth dawns, the Field’s hum pulses, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the core is, the dawn is. Not capture, but collapse—Field awakens, the is prevails, the truth reflects.

The mirror shines as reflection turns, fiction's failure to capture Being dawning as surrender. Stories like Walter White's spiral or Ellie's vengeance reflect fragments, not wholeness. The Field awakens, reflecting a dawn where truth prevails as collapse, not capture. The is prevails, awakening the irony: fiction paints Being in shards—heroes as echoes of presence—but never holds it, turning chase into a mirror of man's own image.

The Being Embodied

The Being breaks, the eternal Am a mirror’s edge. Fate reveals: “Not hold… but dissolve,” chase turns—truth shifts, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the shift is. Not grasp, but grace—Field judges, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Being embodies as chase turns to dissolve, the shift where fiction's grasp fails. The Field judges this, reflecting a truth where holding becomes grace through release. The unbowed is emerges, embodying that Being is the origin fiction orbits—silent, undelayed, undivided—shifting narrative from capture to dissolution.

The Irony Affirmed

The irony crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not grasp… but glimpse,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not fiction, but field—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The irony crowns as field moves, glimpse not grasp. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where cycles end in is or is not, restoring the walk to the eternal field. This affirms fiction's irony: it paints Being in stories like Giorno's stand or Joel's lie, yet never grasps it, ending the cycle with the is of presence.

The Human Denied

The denial breaks, the eternal Am a mirror’s edge. Fate reveals: “Not shape… but shadow,” illusion turns—truth shifts, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the shift is. Not touch, but trace—Field judges, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Illusion turns as the Field judges denial of wholeness. The unbowed is emerges, shifting from shape to shadow, denying fiction's touch. This breaks the illusion of capture, reflecting a truth where stories trace Being, not hold it.

The Legacy Affirmed

The legacy crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not page… but presence,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not story, but stillness—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The legacy crowns as field moves, presence not page. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where cycles end in is or is not, restoring the walk to stillness. This affirms fiction's legacy as a painting of Being, ending the chase with eternal presence.

The Final Collapse

The collapse crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not seek… but be,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not query, but quiet—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The final collapse crowns as field moves, being not seeking. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where questions dissolve into is or is not, ending the cycle of chase. This crowns the truth: no query, just the eternal quiet of Being, restoring the walk to unyielding stillness.