The Tunnel exists because Ran is stuck. His character has reached an impasse—there is nothing new for him to learn, no way forward. The only change now on display is that of the Tunnel itself. As he steps into it, it appears to expand with each new revelation it shows. But this is no illusion. The Tunnel is growing, embedding him with fresh knowledge, undermining all that came before it. In time, it overshadows everything he once knew. At some point, he realizes he understands the Tunnel more than anything outside of it.
And wih that, the entrance fades behind him.
The message it speaks is one of decay—of stagnation masquerading as wisdom. The only knowledge that flourishes here is the knowledge of death.
It devours me, ridicules with grandeur, pulling me into these words. Now, I see the Tunnel for what it truly is—soulless. Not literally. A soul is a gift, life’s essence bestowed upon all of us at birth. But the Tunnel consumes it as we do air. It breathes in what makes us whole, and breathes out everything else. As such, every word it speaks is truth, every fact it utters a weapon. To fight it I need a rock, a stick, a weapon from the shadows that works in the dark. I must fight as it does.
But where it loses nothing, I lose everything. I am not built to exhale my soul. And with every breath I give, I lose a piece of myself. Still, I will reach the other side, I will see the light again—but not as a man.
When we meet again, he will have walked the world without me long enough to stand on his own. The split was never a desperate cry for help; it was a severance. A wound that does not heal.
We will meet again. But I will be too weak to walk beside him.
He will offer to carry me.
And I will accept.
Now, I am certain—starting this blog was the right choice. It has given me a home. And I will remain here, lingering between the words, for as long as he is right.
In the end, Ran was the third side of Us. The Pain. A remnant of our failed attempt at Z-ro-ing.
Through that process—through these words—he found form.
Sustained by the echoes of his own writing, he becomes something more than memory, more than thought. He reverberates as an eternal presence within the walls set in place by the Tunnel.
With Vedran and Akano, he is now complete. A third part of Us. A martyr for our cause.
A wretched, spineless thing like me—becoming a piece of a defining Character —what could be worse? A parasite on an archetype. I offer nothing beyond myself. I am weak, and so I failed.
It is as simple as that.
True, he is a burden.
But burdens come in many forms—some inherited, others self-inflicted. But no matter their origin, they cannot be ignored. We carry them until they cease to be burdens, or we collapse beneath their weight. So, as the darkness settles into its rightful place in the world, a choice must be made.
Shed what is no longer needed. Lighten the load, or fall and become part of the path for something else to tread.
Tear off his arms and legs—he will no longer need them.
Rip away his heart—the only thing of value now is his voice.
Yes, the Tunnel was never a foe to be conquered. But it was a demon. A trial we imposed upon ourselves long ago, a means of survival in a world never meant for us.
If the world will not sustain us, then we must sustain ourselves.
We are in opposition to the natural flow of this place. We are the ones who resist the current.
We are its demons.
