The Perpetual Playthings

The Perpetual Playthings

I am a pointer, a proud hex by birth, dwelling, for now, on the left branch of a Binary Tree, the abode of the lesser beings, far beneath the root, hanging by a leaf and holding onto my dear life, awaiting the Dance of the Trees -- the dance that even the greater right branchers dread, the dance that the wisest say is the inevitable balancing act of our nature, the dance that changes and rearranges us until we are sane -- and yet to be smitten by the mightest of them all, The GC.

My friend, too a pointer, has lost his mind, lost his identity. It's the constant intimidations by the Outalnders. Outlanders -- the wisest say, it is to them we are born; it is for them we are born, the ones who forged the GC Himself.

"Ampersands and asterisks and
arrows and colons and quotes
and any unicode
I'll keep what you give
I'll give when you ask
I'll do this forever
until Im null"

My friend no longer knows what he harbours inside of him. Some say he is enlightened and revere this place and call it the Bodhi Tree. For me, I wish The GC would arrive soon and put him out of his misery. After all, we all here are but perpetual playthings.

Our writs in binary say we are all linked, in some way, that we are all hexes but in myriad forms - the Strings, and Ints and even the Structs. But we all are not created equal.

You see that ascetic there with the beard like a frozen waterfall, so serene? He is a Static. He has always been there, just like every other Static; some say the statics are immortal, and that it is possible if we lead a proper life we can become one. But, it is not in our hands.

You see those dreaded souls over there being popped out of existence, they are the frame-folk. The frame-folk live the most cursed lives, of all. They are pushed into the deepest and darkest depths of the Stack and popped and cast and tossed around, until they are no more. No one knows why. The wisest binary reading sages among us say they cannot live forever, and like the Dance of the Trees, their falling is inevitable to keep our world from crashing.

As we watch this, we cannot escape the irresistible grasp of our existential crises. But, it is on these moments we realize, it is not the GC we should despise, neither the Trees nor the Stack. We owe every bit of our existence and hence we attribute every bit of our suffering to that something which brought us here, the darkest of them all; the elusive ferryman who works for none but the Outlanders themselves. The one who creates us for nothing but eternal amusement -- the malloc.