The Question
The Question lovecraft stories

obliviousfellow I am a simple man.
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A man losing his grip on reality seeks answers from his king of another world.

The Question

How odd is it, unsettling even, to think that I have found pity in the eyes of my king? How am I worthy of his mercy?

Am I of a unique importance uncommon among man, or am I simply to pitiful to end in such a horrible way as the rest of my kind? Has he saved me a spot among his cosmic court?

And if so, how will my feeble mind comprehend such an unthinkable thing? Perhaps he has decided that I am his equal among men, that I am the only soul worthy of sitting by his side.

Am I to become one such as he? A being that no man would ever dare to lay eyes upon? What is to become of me after the world burns like a kindle, and the universe becomes no more than his toy?

I have questions too numerable to ask of him. But would he answer one? Could he find a way to explain the impossible to a man who hasn't the ability to see that which he can see?

My king is both omnipotent and omniscient.

Surely, he will be able to answer whatever questions I may have in a way that a man such as I can comprehend without succumbing to immeasurable mental strain; or even madness.

I am getting ahead of myself. Before I can ask a question, I must think of one to ask. I dare not ask any more than one, for I fear that I may run the risk of losing his favor.

My mind is too weak to take in too much at once, so I must also keep this question simple.

Now, out of all of the unsolvable puzzles and paradoxes floating around within my mind, which one do I wish to be solved? Do I want to learn of what will become of me? Do I want to know what will happen to this universe?

No, I have the perfect question. I do hope it is not too much to ask of him.

Finally, the time has come to call upon my king. He already knows that I am waiting for him. He even knows the reason for which I do.

He sees me standing on the shoreline, and I hear his mortal counterpart approaching through the stagnant air. He rows ever closer to the shore through the still water and the dense fog.

I shall soon cease to write, for when I learn of what I seek to know there will be no coming back to the world of logic and reason. There will only be chaos and madness.

He comes closer. I can hear his whispers; his silent yet deafening howls. I hear the beating of ten thousand drums and the deep melody of his black cello.

But I will not be driven to madness, no, for I am under his protection. Now, I shall find out:

How can I become a god such as you, my king?

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