Entry 4 - The Solitary-hearted
[Entry meant to be private but is a) easily hackable and b) written in a small state of panic]
The cut isn't healing.
I mean, it is healing. It has all the properties of a superficial wound, large and ugly and brown and scarring. It's some kind of henna river running across my palm and I have never had a scab before, not once, not even in school when I fell from the swings after Stacia pushed me too hard.
My skin has always been perfect, wonderful, blessed. What have I done to it?
No.
What has this world done to it? I should be regenerating without issue.
... It occurs to me, of course, that I have not been sick these past few days - I am not reeling from the after-effects of Lavi's attack in my world, no. I am perfectly, disturbingly healthy from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
No, I hurt because my body is unsure of how to act when mortal. This is no ordinary sickness - it is simply the beating of my heart, a continuous thumping as if to say I exist, I exist, I exist. This cut should be healing. My heart should not be sounding off this continuous cadence of mortality!
I need to get out of here.
I tried to escape, to summon the powers which lead me to my world of Dreaming. The dimension does not come - it does not heed to me. I've lost access to it.
I know because when I sleep I do not dream, and this is what disturbs me the most.
I miss my dreams.
Uncle Tyki, where are you and why haven't you come for me yet?
[Poem used is The Solitary-Hearted, written by Hartley Coleridge and available for free use here.]
The cut isn't healing.
I mean, it is healing. It has all the properties of a superficial wound, large and ugly and brown and scarring. It's some kind of henna river running across my palm and I have never had a scab before, not once, not even in school when I fell from the swings after Stacia pushed me too hard.
My skin has always been perfect, wonderful, blessed. What have I done to it?
No.
What has this world done to it? I should be regenerating without issue.
... It occurs to me, of course, that I have not been sick these past few days - I am not reeling from the after-effects of Lavi's attack in my world, no. I am perfectly, disturbingly healthy from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
No, I hurt because my body is unsure of how to act when mortal. This is no ordinary sickness - it is simply the beating of my heart, a continuous thumping as if to say I exist, I exist, I exist. This cut should be healing. My heart should not be sounding off this continuous cadence of mortality!
I need to get out of here.
I tried to escape, to summon the powers which lead me to my world of Dreaming. The dimension does not come - it does not heed to me. I've lost access to it.
I know because when I sleep I do not dream, and this is what disturbs me the most.
I miss my dreams.
Uncle Tyki, where are you and why haven't you come for me yet?
[Poem used is The Solitary-Hearted, written by Hartley Coleridge and available for free use here.]