A well worn diary with a leather cover. The owner's name is embossed in Tarnished silver: "Ball Zess".
"In youth, our lives are a series of novel impressions. Your first spell, the first kiss, the first taste of victory, the first adventure you set off on, without asking for permission - and the first triumphant return! But then you mature and become accustomed to every feeling. What was once novel has become mundane, and you reach a plateau. - It's all rather boring, but at least you can pass through life with confidence... But it won't last long. Your well trodden path begins to circle and descend. It is the beginning of old age - another time of new impressions. The first cracking joint, the first pang in your heart, your failing eyes, your thinning hair. Yes, our mortal bodies are traitors all, just waiting to stab us in the back... But what' truly scary are the other firsts.
The first funeral of someone you cannot lose. The first compromise with one's conscience. The first friend to say, 'I've no wish to see you again.' The first student who abandons you, or buries his talent, or dies in his prime. - Or turns your lessons to evil ends.
The first time you look at your travel bag, and desire to throw it in the fire, and leap in behind it.
I thought the Bleaching couldn't touch me. Boredom? In this beautiful world where there's always a place for new adventures? Impossible! Or so I believed. But it snuck up upon me, from where I least expected. My should grew numb from the number of scars it bears. The body could be rejuvenated by magic. - But where can you hide when you disgust yourself? There's only one thing left, to do as the fey do: turn your heart into a gemstone, on which the past can leave no mark. You'll never change, and remember nothing, but continue in bliss forever... It must be a wonderful existence, though it may appear monstrous from the outside. But the saddest part is this: even if one of the Eldest would come to me and offer me a return to the First World, that I may be careless and free... And were I to agree, then the 'me' I am now - this old vagabond, sick of himself - he will be no more. It would be just another death - albeit a pleasant one. I cannot win this game. Even if I somehow slip Pharasma's grasp, i will never trick oblivion.
And this is as it should be. It means that sooner or later I will escape from the disgusting old man I call myself."
This page was last edited on 30 August 2020, at 13:49.
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