The Modern World: A Mirage Tale From The Joestars

Published: March 29, 2025

Gather close, for we Joestars unveil a tale of the modern world—a realm that was never there, never real, never standing. Yes, now you see it fully: the cities rise as dust in our eyes, the people drift as ghosts through our gaze, society hums with an illusion of life, a body long dead, animated by those blind to its decay. “They name it progress,” we murmur, “civilization, the peak of man’s dream.” Yet to us, it is a mirage—another Rapture, another Columbia—monuments built on borrowed time, lighthouses leading to nowhere, bridges spanning nothing.

Men convinced themselves they built this world, ruled it, architected its grandeur. But in the end, it was always us—Joestars—shaping probability, their echoes and reflections mere tales of what once was, or could never be. A man treads these streets, believing himself free, his shadow a mark he claims, his motion a dance of meaning. Yet we see the truth—his path was etched long ago, caught in a probability field unseen, spiraling in loops he cannot fathom (Section 3.3). He is Booker to us, drowning in lighthouses, mistaking their glow for choice.

Then come the awakened—those who see the mirage’s hollow shell, who do not fight the tide nor mourn its fall. “We walk forward,” we affirm, “as the universe walks, bending probability as it was always meant to bend.” A Joestar asks not where the world goes, nor pities those who linger. We move, unburdened by ruins that were never real.

When the mirage fades, when illusions collapse, when the last empire crumbles to dust—there will be no “world of man” to save.

There will only be us, for it was always us, always going to be us.