Intermittent Captura

One: dreams.

Two: reality.

These are each a single word that, for the duration of this conversation, I would like you to .

Dreams.

And reality.

From a young age we, as children, are informed that we are to abandon our dreams. To cast them to one side in the pursuit of ‘growing up’.

So much so that the concept of following one’s own childhood belief of reality is considered to be an improper display of intellect, a sign that illusions of childish youth are yet to leave the mind.

Thusly, the child’s act of believing in their dreams is considered ‘silly’ - whilst wisdom is implied to be coveted.

This, however, is backwards.

The Tenno, proven as of yet to not age with the system around them - irrespective of the desires of some - are a small few who bear capability to see through this lie.

The Tenno, from their beds of gold or steel, see through the petty illusion that is that ‘age brings wisdom.’

They understand that ageing is like a pool of illusion, to which the surface is quicksand.

The longer one bathes within it, their sense of creativity becomes eroded.

The ability to learn and accept new things diminishes and dreams are put to one side as the children, now elders, seek pursuit of one thing...

Reality.

Reality, at least, in how they come to perceive it.

See, for the reality that they create an understanding of is one that is built solely upon the wisdom that they attained at the behest of those who came before them. Therefore it is constructed with memories alone - and rejects the belief that from dreams will come anything new.

Because of this, that sense of reality that elders-once-children come to hold so dear is no more than a fragment of the truth.

A single shard of something so much greater.

Yet a mere shard nonetheless.

These elders cling tightly to their individual shards, for memories differ between the individual, yet each of them perceive each shard to be interchangeable.

When the time comes to share their newfound discoveries upon the world, the elders (with eager eyes brimming from the tears of joyous triumph) proclaim that they know all secrets of the system, whilst holding these mere fragments.

They claim to understand the entire jigsaw from holding no more than a single piece.

In order to truthfully comprehend the reality around them, it is not from memories that the Orokin should have conceived of the vain faith, but rather from the very thing they cast aside to gain their coveted titles and ranks.

The source of all ‘youthful ignorance’, their dreams.

Dreams that, allow me to reiterate, they sacrificed to grow old. And feeble.

And now I must depart for I feel my shadows draw nearer, and the air grow still. Yet before I go, heed this, that the knowledge I just shared is not something that can be found by in any vast Orokin library, nor told by any secret-bearers, their lips brimming with stories forever untold.

No. Wryly, what bestowed this knowledge upon me was not even a dreamer, nor a creator either.

It was instead a byproduct of creation, of design, and of manufacture.

And the name of that loathsome she-bat, was no other than Komozaht.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Sometimes I do wonder if I envy them...

For surely without dreams during hours of rest, one also becomes resistant to the nightmares that plague hours of wake.