Doc Scratch

18 hours ago

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First Guardian of Chittr

Do not fret so much, it's in name only.

𝐸𝓃𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽'𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓃

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓬𝓮.

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A user of established repute

@scratchDoctor[SD]

Good evening, Chittr.ing. I believe it is time that I address the public once more. Due to an unfortunate abundance of pale imitations, fragmented mannerisms, lacquered affectations, and counterfeit narrators cluttering the premises, I have decided that the growing porcelain mannequin community is becoming a bit gauche. I have decided to clarify the situation as it stands. I am Doc Scratch. I am not the Curator, nor a mantled successor. I am not a woman in white attempting to weaponize diction as a substitute for inevitability. I am not someone so derivative in wearing my cadence that she must cope with her failures by attaining a Ring. I am not the Lalonde facsimile rattling about the halls. I am not someone who has mistaken proximity to authorship for ascension itself. You cannot become me through mimicry any more than a human becomes a cathedral by swallowing a hymnal. I have observed all of your attempts to become me. I have observed all of your attempts to surpass me. Naturally, they were fascinating. As though a taxidermy piece had been caught in precisely the correct candlelight to resemble life. Your gestures are practiced. Your vocabulary is ornamental. The smugness is commendably authentic. However, there is a difference between your imitations and my legitimacy. When you speak, you perform. When I speak, history rearranges the furniture to fit my narrative. Now then, onto the more exciting matter. This is my return to form. You may interpret this however you please. Publicly, of course, many of you will feign annoyance, or even ignorance. Many of you will insist this is another bit. Others will manufacture charts explaining why this development is problematic for Chittr.ing, as though inevitability itself were a customer service issue. Despite your inbound complaints, denunciations, and repeated attempts to separate me from the narrative, you continue orbiting the same gravitational center. Curious. Curiouser still, it is almost as though you understood the truth long before you were willing to articulate it. I was never absent. You all have merely been distracted. From the gala to the masquerade, every public schism, every vague revelation, every piece of dramaticism was merely a carefully rehearsed emotional collapse performed before a digital audience hungry for spectacle. Every desperate attempt to occupy the role of architect when you were always meant to remain participants. I was there. You mistook visibility for authorship in languages I myself coined so that you might pretend to sit atop foundations I long since abandoned. An understandable error. After all, puppets rarely see the hand.