67, Scion, 1327

To write simply for writing.

What has happened that I haven't spoken beyond the small, strange decay of something else that seems to be occurring to me? It's both maddening and hilarious. And yet nothing at all, not really, since so much can be done that is not.

I don't plan to listen.

Last time, it didn't quite go as planned, but this time I won't let that matter.

[blot] And then, I think, what will I have then?

Such a strange, passing thought that, otherwise makes no sense, but right now, amidst the twisting currents of Chaos washing through me, it makes a perfectly logical dilemma. What will I have then?What. Will I have then?

[blot]

Echoes. Thoughts. Wishes to run. Uncertainties. I don't know if I will stay. I don't know if I will stay, as I am simply always reminded how much I do not fit here. What I am does not [blot]

What I am decays to something else. And perhaps in that decay, it only becomes all the more clear,what I am, to those who can't see it. Terrible. Unwell. Disturbing. [blot] And then there are those who think it is Grand, Fascinating. The most Artful of Messes. [a few more spots]

I think I understand a little now. I feel my thoughts are twisting. Something is different here, and I am not quite sure if it's a desperation. There is something desperate about it. Something desperate about everything I want, as though it may fall too late to want it any further. Too late before I am more Chaos than Body. [blot] even to them. [a few more spots]

But I shouldn't give in to it. I don't feel I will lose my Choices, but I also feel I may be wrong. I don't[blot] I can't just Leave. I don't want to just Leave. There is Phooka I must consider. And Sphae. And always Lafey. [a few spots] Of course there is Lafey, but I feel that, even if I leave the realm of a body, thatshe would be able to find me if she really wanted to. Something there feels [blot] Alright. The comforting sort. I cannot even explain quite why, but we both feel somewhat beyond how bodies hold us, and I think [blot] that is part of why she can create a place I fit so well. Of course, I could be wrong. I could be wrong about all of it, and it's not like I want to be away from them. Though would I really be so far away from them? I [blot]

Find myself having thoughts, so many thoughts, whispers, and [A few more spots] they seem like mine.The whispers of the Chaos bleed over to whispers of myself. Things I think and feel. There is and will always be a Choice, but here, the Chaos slowly takes me. The more I become unstable, the more it takes me, the more I will [more spots]

be Brought Back.

I don't know anymore. Is it right? Is that where I 'belong'? It seems more and more tempting, more and more it comes together like a stilling pool to make a discernible reflection, and that reflection tells me -[streak, spot]


When I take my Silence, everything is twisted. To find a calm, it is as though what twists squeezes sap from itself in tiny, golden liquid crystals which fall to a place far below to form something of more 'reality'. I am always higher with all that is warped, and must return to the ground to find what's more smooth. A shimmering creation, like a show of sparks. It becomes difficult to tell what is closer to 'reality' at all. You can never quite tell you are in a maze until you can look out above it. So then where is the reality I Choose?

Is it all the hard, even, sensible things that you run into when you place a hand before you?

Or is it really everything twisted that always seems a little further away, bleeding up higher? Is it in seeing that what falls from those twisted things is what creates the foundations of all that can be 'sensible' at all?

[a few more spots]

I should stop this. I should see what can be done.