I find I know not the times, the suns, the moons. The continuation of cycles is lost on me. Besides winter. All is lost on me.
It all comes apart. Yet is somehow together in its hovering pieces.
The Chaos. [blot] I know not what to say of it. It remains. It is. I remain. I am.
I realize I speak in circles. I realize that I am done with, for now, trying to nicely remind myself of what I've lost, because the self I'd be nicely reminding is lost. 'Blind leading the blind' is a human phrase I've heard. That's exactly what it would be, I think. I wonder if it would help me now to read all that I wrote. I wonder if now is the time, the one I'd thought might happen. I wonder how successful I was in doing what I'd hoped to do with all the memories I'd attempted to keep so crudely~
I am covered by the death that takes flora in winter.
Who would know what they see when looking at their skeleton remains? Who would know if it will bloom well again, if it will ever be that bright [spot] lighthouse beacon, that vast night sky, that contradictory calming chaos, that creature that may be found beneath blankets, happily holding the Secrets of those who'd happily have them held... or be one of those that, come that changing season, is all but gone when cycles change? Is more of me in a steadfast tree that will regrow anew, different, yet semblant of what it was before? Or was I to be found in the plant of a wayward seed, far from the place it was ever meant to try and take root, and now, will merely whither?
[a few blots]
I mourn what I was at times. Just in my silence. I don't think any others would. I don't know if they would think what I was is gone, or if [spot] if they'd see me, and find I am not what they wanted. How I imagine a spirit must be seen, by many of those who knew who they once were. They merely wish it peace and go, for they feel nothing much else can be done. I don't know if much can be done. I don't think it is something to fix, there is nothing to fix. It is that one thing has been taken away, what it was made of reformed, then placed down again as something else entirely. Whatever it is, it is, but there is no fixing it. It's in its sapling state. New, in its undoing. I don't think any would know, save Sphae, even if I did completely End.
But it is not even that branch which I speak. I don't know how else to respect all that they did for me. I suppose that's an unusual thing, to quietly, occasionally, mourn your own memory that you recall... yet can't seem to reach, can't seem to feel quite right. It is.. that I had so much. I [blot] love them, and they loved me. They desperately cared to see me return, and then.. I couldn't. I couldn't return to them. They cared for me, and look what they are left with.
But it is like the winter. It was always likely to happen. And I realize it was nothing I could stop, as I was. I didn't want it, but it had to happen.
I still can't decide if I want to embrace it. If [a few spots] this is just what I am now. Because it is what I am now. I may not want it, but it is what I have left to coax into want. And from wherever that goes, that will be [spot]
One always has a Choice.
But those Choices are not [a blot]
I always thought I might forget. But I did not think it would be like this.
[blot]
I'm sorry.
