Deep in the desert, now nearly buried in sand, there is —or was— a place for creatures like us. Long after the Designers left us, we remained, huddled together in groups, gangs, as we called them. These gangs varied in size, from loners who barricaded and fortified individual rooms for themselves, or dared to travel the long and complex corridors of the once lively place we all belonged to.
That was the thing: we couldn't leave.
Many of those wanderers were never heard from or seen alive again. A few of them probably died of thirst or hunger. Others suffered from what the Designers called reverse heartsickness. And still more fell victim to the plight of the Designers: starvation.
We were not able to communicate properly, most of us, at first. Some could speak the language of the Designers from more time spent with them. Many lacked the anatomy to use it. Eventually though, we developed our own language, if we could call it one. It was a very primitive system of communication, yes, for it had to be. Most of us could not handle the mental strain of forming complex words or movements of the hoof.
We were all alone, and united. We all could not impart our thoughts onto another, and we all were confined by our one collective taboo.
No one, no ling ever mentioned it. They didn't need to. Everyone knew, if the Designers never came back, we would all die alone together. This irked some, and empowered others. Many lived happily, but briefly. Some took their own lives, and many suffered the consequences of another’s madness.
Few of us could imagine a world beyond our home, so we reasoned that the Designers would come back, or that they had never even left, that they were hiding from us, testing us for something. They must have been, right?
This was our most viscous thought, that we had been abandoned. We had been declared worthless, failures, expendable and useless. Incapable of being used for anything, yet not useful enough to warrant such use. Left to die. We were just waiting for death, or a sign, or something.
Occasionally, gangs would spend a while discussing, thinking together, sleeping together, eating together. Then the two gangs were indistinguishable from one another. This was rare, but it kept happening, and soon there were only a few factions left.
It was very clear to all of us that these two gangs would never assimilate. “They were not alike in anything” is the criminally generalized statement our collective memory has now reconciled it to. This is, of course, false. They were still all alone together. They could not convey to one another their feelings, their fundamentally unique experiences of the world. And this, being united in division, is the only truly common thread holding this story together. It is a fact that transcends culture, appears in everything, and rips societies apart.
Into this world, I was born. I was not the first child born after the Designers left. I wasn't even a part of the first generation after they left. I was just another consequence of a period spent in pleasurable friction.
I will never know my parents. I will never remember their names. They didn't have any names for me to remember.
But my name is Ciryl. I am the first child anyone gave a name to after the Designers left. The Designers had gifted their original creations with names, each of them unique, each of them a perfect embodiment of the Designers’ vision for life.
I was the first non original creature to be given a name. Every child born after the Designers left had been referred to as a collective “Transitionals”, for many believed that the Designers wished for us to develop independently for a while until they returned, and would bless the individuals they returned to with names.
My parents were both Transitionals. They were not first generation Transitionals, I am led to believe, but it is impossible to be certain. Each individual’s lifespan varied dramatically from the next. A Transitional could be born from an Original and a first or second generation Transitional.
I will never know the exact details of my heritage, and it is unimportant in any case, so I digress.
The faction into which I was born, which I will refer to as the Ceruleans, believed —mostly— that it was cruel to deny individuals a name. After all, no creature could exist without a name in the Designers’ language. Our system of communication had found ways around this, so my name couldn't be justified as purely utilitarian. My parents believed that a name was a fundamental component of individuality, of personhood.
The faction into which I was not born, which I will call the Golds, believed —mostly— that it was cruel to curse individuals with an impure name, a name which was not received as a gift from the Designers. After all, the Designers granted names only to the Originals, and whose place was it to puff up their chest and besmirch the Designers. It was not my parents’ right to give me a false and detrimental identity. I didn't deserve anything. I was just another stepping stone in their experiment.
I wonder now if they were wrong. I wonder now if both factions were lying to themselves, that the data they drew conclusions from was accurate, if even my parents were making a mistake.
I am sure they were wrong.
I know they were wrong about so many things.
I will tell you how I came to learn, how I learned to live beyond the walls of stone and without this fighting.
But first, I will tell you what the Designers left us with, as best I can recall it. I have lost so much thought from inside. My memories fade. My mind falls apart. I fear that soon I will reach my end.
Find enclosed that which was holy to my people.