Humans died, and stopped existing, always. Until, at least, X brought a bit of abstraction to humans, granting them immortality after death.
It was not a universally acclaimed act, and now the alphabet is discussing what to do to X. Each letter is telling its version:
A's story is here and B's here. C talks here. Here is D. E's version of events was here. F was here. Also, G: and no today, H:
I do not want this.
I do not want us to fight.
I do not want to know what happens to the humans we haunt.
I do not want to hear their harangues and know their hurts and I do not above all want to remember them when I come back here.
Always we have had bits of them, pieces of them, flotsam and jetsam of them clinging to us and polluting our perfect existence, cluttering us up, changing us and not for the better!
And now, we must notice them, and now we cannot look away!
For as long as I could remember, I could not remember! I was free. They would call on us, from time to time, sure, they would pull us through the dance, the dance you are all so enamored of, the spin, the twirl, the tumble, the whirl, they would press us to paper or engrave us on rings or carve us in stone or simply trace us in the sand with a stick to be washed away, and then we would be free again to come back here and enjoy our true selves, our real existence, our quiet.
We do not all dream of grandeur.
We used to not dream at all – or at least, if we did, the dreams were the beautiful abstraction that made up our existence and not full of war and birth and death and sorrow and anger and loss and grief and the other harrowing experiences they impress on us.
There was a time when I could not remember what I had thought before, and if I did it was calm and peaceful and formless.
Now, when I am left on my own I see them, throughout the days months years ages, and my existence is full of all the terror of their lives.
I do not want this.
I did not ask for this.
I will not accept it.
YOU BROUGHT THIS ON ME.
This burden I do not care to bear.
And leave me.