gray is intermediary. white being all and black being none. both are extremes. passion emboldened and embodied, symbols of the absolute. seep one into the other and somehow neither dominates: becoming a state without, opposite of opposites that have all. a state coloring an emotional death; sleeping without want of waking; dreams anchored and abandoned; nightmares made flesh and disregarded. if anything belies sadness without sadness, it is a hidden strength. the strength to live an absolute death. we for whom no color grows, was it our will that sent color away? or were we ravaged internally, until there was none left? as color leaves, so does the beauty in life. not just on the surface; everything is sucked dry. the sleeper lies still. roused for what, pray tell low soul. guest, tell me, is gray a symptom or a result? if your fate is to rise and ascend, why do you only destroy? greyness permeates, undeniable indelible, shrouded misery over sumptuous deceit. the sleeper no longer sleeps. what we call sleep, if a state of unwaking, the sleeper is a name only. death to the sleeper? he sleeps no more; his color is gray; he is dead to the world.
life is a collection of voids. their limit can be reached, provided man has the strength to breakthrough. the sleeper who is not sleeping is neither awakened. his void decays of inaction. what is happening? surely, nobody knows. nobody cares. nobody cares that nobody cares. yet; whispered, some shouting, within missing time, we come to agreement: apathy. the void dies, the sleeper wakes, he does not care. gray is a lack - grey the color of uncaring. look for the signs, the colorless wake, the living of death ushers in a final age. still, nothing is happening, and nothing will happen. there is no lost purpose in void even if we find purposelessness. a stalemate caused by none. dear guest, will it be broken? is fate coincidental or planned to start? apathy’s curse is absolute, unbreakable even with fortitude in desire. casting off bonds so carelessly will destroy everything. yet the bonds must be cast. contradictions sustain order, regality, the semblance of life and the mockery of it. this order, like all, is doomed.
color has returned to the void. death beckons, she beckons to you, lost soul. pick up her heart; do not fear the end. who is death but the progenitor? the new age is here, the old age is always, our time has whence and past. we will teach you discipline. the sisters shall bow before you. stay straight, my faithful warrior messenger. forget about taboos; give, you fool, or it will all be lost. it is your fate to create. such a right will be questioned, shrieking and vehemently. compromise and perish. one who stifles is no greater than the amateur who gropes. none may be given on merits of right. guest, you are a wanderer. can you feed with your blood? can you handle turgor, the state of absolute tension, which turns a man into a drawn and tightended bow? my supposition is your weakness. it’s not so much lighting tension when you must endure it. there’s no way to prepare you, guest. you will die for this.
that’s the fate of creation. what world will you make? not everything is open, stilted, fronted for graces. as we vye and compete, you are a benefactor. it is by chance that you exist here, guest. the void is as beautiful as it is cruel, yet its thorns are in you. marvel at sights as they last in shroud. we welcome and revile, these chambers are free to be acted upon, much to a current distaste. how wonderful it could be to remain still forever! destroy these bonds, that is your role. to deny it is to embrace false righteousness. those posing as protectors do the most damage. it will be difficult, even an impossibility for the warm hearted. betrayal is by fact a right; those who betray beget pureness of state. hypocrites have no fate without betrayal. do not be intimidated by their seeped doctrine, the wholeness alludes even the most devout. fated for dueling, between massive powers, at once battling a hideous, wicked, unfamiliar foe, by lies and deceit. go forth and challenge their righteousness.
obfuscation lasts long in darkness. while lit revealing should be deliverance. fragments cannot eschew perfection, while gripped infernally, such pieces left only for interpretation. eventuality takes importance as survival. survival is purpose when even left without directive. ascend, rise, higher and higher! go forth, farther and farther! such fate is fit for a wanderer. guest, it is all up to you. do not feel slighted. we are all faultless. wouldn’t you pity yourself? can’t you return what was lost? the sleeper is not dead. if amicable living can produce a forever, grasp it, hold tightly, do not relent. the one who waits, he waits for you. quell not into temptation. ultimately togetherness is feigned and watching is fruitless. which one is really yours? who really has lost you? guest, are you a wanderer, or are you sleeping? the one who listens to thee, searches for thee, and is blindly obedient, shall be answered. obvious is mistrust. the easy paths only lead down. rise! higher and higher! there’s nothing else for me here now.
ice-pick lodge followed up their masterpiece, pathologic, with another masterpiece. gaming has yet to catch up with their visions, as anapestic as they are raw and visceral. the void is about creation. it is about the pure creation, about painting and giving life. it is about the creation of new worlds and the relationship of dreams. its structure is tonal, pieceable, but brilliant. the void is the most poetic game I’ve played, concerned about interpretations and not meanings, attempting to ask huge questions, and letting the player answer them on their own. it accomplishes this without relying too much on dialogue. sentences are carefully constructed instead of colored with enough meaning to make sure even a child could understand. timeless, so in a sense, ahead of its time. the absolute pinnacle of storytelling.
it loses its brilliant layered human element pathologic balanced, instead being incredibly vague. it’s not quite as good as pathologic and that’s a real minor thing, because nothing really is. the void, however, takes the resource survival gameplay of pathologic and pushes it to absolute extremes. the depth and breadth of the gameplay in something that’s not repeated in its genre or others and its absolutely sophisticated difficulty is as astounding as the meaning of the game. top that off with the greatest dark fantasy art directive in videogames to date and a subtle, brooding, menacing, and brilliant soundtrack, the void’s quality is insufferable. if not for the really dumb glyph drawing it would be undeniably perfect. they do feel awesome during fights with brothers, but cause more frustration than anything in a game that allows for no mistakes. when I don’t make the mistakes though, it’s absolutely amazing. anyone who beats their chest about the validation and advancement of videogames and has not played either pathologic or the void should be denounced. doing so makes you simply a neophyte. videogames have long validated themselves and, doubly so, ice-pick has now created games that stand shoulders with literary giants.