#Fiction

A headcanon is a fan’s personal fantasy that forcibly fills in the gaps left by official narratives. It disregards authorial intent to reshape characters and settings to one’s liking in a creative act of nihilism. Evidence-free hypotheses are shared as if gospel, igniting endless debates. Within fandoms, it becomes a ritualistic necessity, growing into a monster that can overshadow the source material. It’s less about reading and more about an echo chamber of self-satisfaction.

Myth is an accumulation of stories speaking of an idealized past, a luxurious wrapping for escaping reality. They are nothing more than devices born to suppress doubt and impose vague moral lessons. At times, they are tailored into grand causes convenient for nations or communities, privileging emotion over truth. Thus we entrust ourselves to a fiction called comfort while multiplying enigmas that remain unraveled. Eventually, the narrated memories outweigh bare facts in a paradoxical reversal of importance.

Mythos is the ancient psychological device that dresses the bitter taste of reality in a sugar-coated fantasy, honouring humanity’s need for comforting lies. It masquerades as sacred truth, dispensing saccharine sermons to any who question its divine pedigree. At times it orchestrates communal unity, at others it justifies the whims of the powerful. Strip away the flowery prose, and it’s merely ink on parchment—yet its weight is as heavy as the mud of our collective delusions. In the end, mythos remains the all-purpose camouflage for inconvenient truths.

A novel is a multi-course textual feast designed to conceal the tedium of reality by letting one satiate their imagination on borrowed lives. It sprinkles fairy dust that either moves readers to tears or compels them to turn pages without noticing the hours slipping by. Writers adorn their own voids with decorative prose, and readers, as willing accomplices in this social masquerade, taste the illusion as if it were their own lived experience.

A retcon is a cunning narrative device that scrambles past continuity to suit creators’ whims, leaving audiences patting themselves on the back for noticing “subtle” changes while thoroughly confused. It casually erases previous events or resurrects characters declared dead, all in the name of convenience. Fans are subtly tested on their memory as old facts shift like quicksand underfoot. It may be deemed an ingenious effort to impose a new order on chaos, but more often it yields momentary pandemonium and indignation. Truth, it seems, is nothing more than an afterthought.

A story is the sugared elixir humanity concocts to escape the abyss of boredom, blending inconvenient truths and palatable lies. The stage upon which grandiose settings and flagrantly inconsistent characters frolic serves as a makeshift trail out of the ravaged forest of reality. Its audience is granted permission to pretend salvation lies within, if only to appease their own anxieties and emptiness. Ultimately, the most dramatic finale of all is the fleeting comfort shared between the teller and the listener.

Utopia is the phantom paradise where no one has ever set foot. A social alchemy of perfection talked about by all, yet never implemented by anyone. It is like a museum of ideals where dreamers convene to ignore the inconveniences of reality. Everyone debates endlessly, only to leave everything unchanged, serving as a comfort blanket for collective anxiety. It is boarding a bus to nowhere, but one tells themselves it beats the crowded train of everyday life.