He wrote stories. Stories about people who didn’t write their own. It became an obsession. He wanted to write about them all, but he was nothing but a mere mortal. He lacked time.
He swore an oath. An oath to new gods and old, an oath to Mother Nature, to the universe itself. He swore an oath to Reason.
“If you only give me time, I will write a story about everyone who do not write about themselves. Every single one of them, and no one else. Ever.”
You will be given time, Reason said. If you succeed you will live forever. If you fail, I will take it all back.
The pact was sealed. He wrote. He wrote until he had written about each and every one of them.
Everyone but one. Himself.
Never had he written his own story, so his story had to be written. As he started writing, his memories began to fade. His childhood disappeared as he tried to put it down on paper. His youth. He felt a tingling sensation. Soon he didn’t feel anything any more. He remembered nothing. The pen fell though his transparent hand. He tried to pick it up, but his hand went through it, through the sheet, through the table.
He seized to exist forever, in all past and all future. None of his stories had ever been told.