You, postmodern reader, whose organic portals duly fertilized with the nutrients of higher education now peruse the semiotic markers of verbal meaning, are asked to suspend any disbelief of the following proposition:
You (and others) are, yourself, a fable set in this new millennium in a year known as 2014.
You marvel at the fact that the last time a calendar year bore the numbers '014' was at least a millennium ago, even more either side of that special birth dividing 'before and after'...it.
You are further awed by the apparent fact that two millennia before that famous apparent birth of a famously fabled entity called by some The Christ a place called Troy is said to have existed. You're also aware that the followers of the latter famously fabled entity were followers of another entity called YAWEH, without the vowels.
You also recall that neither of these famous entities ever wrote anything, ever, although many other entities did so in their names, some saying they were inspired to do so.
You've recently attended a film about characters who first appeared in writings called comic books, later in graphic novels; some of these characters creators claim to have been inspired by myths and stories even older than the one not called YAWEH, whose tales were told by Greeks and Romans and Norsemen of half-human heroes.
That word 'hero' reminds you of that Dickens novel you read in school, 'Great Expectations', where the young narrator ponders whether or not he will be the hero of his own life.
You blink, now vaguely smiling at the flickering cursor within the rectangular box on the screen labeled 'COMMENT', realizing that the atoms composing the screen are in a fourth state of matter called plasma; you think about how those atoms are not unlike yours, although yours are in another state called solid. But that physics course you took makes you wonder, since both of these atoms states are still mostly empty space, surrounded by this purest form of energy, electrons, themselves in a fuzzy cloud where they're in several 'places' at once.
Your eyes stop blinking, the biochemical firing of neurons bringing on a realization into your frontal lobes: 'Am I, that is, my atoms, becoming a part of this..screen? Am I a kind of Trojan horse...or...are...they...'
A tap on your shoulder snaps you out of your suspended reverie state; it's your housemate.
"Sorry, someone named Troy's on the phone...wants to know if you're...here..."