I guess it's just what I think. I am not, nor have I ever been used to writing pieces for me and only me. Still, it has come to my attention recently that someday, somewhere I will fade from this world. I will cease as most things do and should. I hope that when that comes that someone will find this, and what is of me won’t be gone forever.
I am in Ost Guruth right now. The stones have corroded even more, but I recall this place the same as before, fondly. It feels so long ago, so much like many years have passed. I suppose my cracking bones and anciently used limbs betray me. It all seems so long ago and far away now.
Yet these years feel the most important. Even more than what happened too soon. Even more than when I found that my mother wasn’t my mother. When I discovered that it was all a lie. I remember lusting after those flames. I remember watching them eat everything I knew and just being happy for it. It was all lies.
I cannot dwell there. I cannot permit myself a consistent residence to that time. It will become me. I am not a smart man. I am not a great man. Many things I have done shame me, and I learn more and more that I was and am no worse than I thought. I cannot help a sigh. Such realities weigh heavy on me, and make me certain that where I am going becomes the smudging of an irreplaceable incandescence.
This feels so idiotic to me. So pointless. When I die, and someone finds these parchments, by then it will all be pointless. But wisdom came to me, and I would be the greatest of fools to ignore it. I believe I am nothing, but not everyone shares that view. I should, at least by the thoughts of others, value my life and what I have to offer. Hm. Part of me still believes I am right, and they are foolish to think otherwise.
Ah, what do I do here? I feel like a bloody coward, scrawling my stupidity into an empty chronicle, hoping that someone will bring meaning to it after I am naught but bones.
