Confessions of a Mad Shapeshifter (subject to change)
an excerpt

Digital minds wandering an analog world are like road weary, disoriented travelers appearing half-witted, mentally deficient. Ultimate jet lag. They also never quite learn the language where they take up temporary residence, expats and exiles.

But what if learning that language would only shut (them) out of other worlds, close the door to other realities as the price of assimilation? Imagine being forever blocked from traveling across dimensions and realities with the flick of a pen, click clacking of keyboard keys. I wonder if we could ever write our way back home. That lost world – those lost worlds – or at the very least, one of those lost worlds could be our lost prelapsarian paradise.

Writing is our kind’s way to journey home where creating reality and realities is as natural as speech. Not being able to is an abomination, the devil’s mark branding one as cursed, damned through eternity to live a single reality not of one’s making. Writing a reality is no different than dreaming one. What, you mean you don’t do that either?

You ask, if there are so many of me, then which is the real one? Which reality is the main reality, the real one?

You presume that there is such a thing as a hierarchy of realities, a great chain of realities.