Whatever was written for a next entry is shredded, stained, an incomprehensible mess. It picks up midsentence on the following page.
and despite it, at least the sunrise sunset sky was a brilliant blend of colours over the horizonline. I do not know why I allowed Procrastin to drag me out to the middle of the Nagrand plains, not only just to 'talk' and 'get fresh air' but to sit suspended thousands of feet up on the grassy flats of a chunk of floating island? Sometimes I wonder about his sense of humor. Fresh air. Humans.
We talked more, he and I. He wants to plan things out, to make order out of this chaos that is my life, and to an extent, now his, too. So quickly the three of us have had our lives intersect and become entangled. I wonder if he resents me, even a little, for taking up some of Auroran's time. Or what if it is the opposite? Occasional mindlinks and shared thoughts hardly mean I know either of them, nor they I, whatever secrets we have all shared.
He left to run errands or do scholar things or maybe chase after little girls, I have no idea. So now I'm here on this little island by myself, left with my own thoughts. I spent a while with my back against the roots of the tree that, inexplicably, is alive and well on this floating hunk of earth, and my palms on my stomach while I pretended I wasn't thinking about the things Procrastin suggested I actually think about.
I have to figure so much out and there's no one to make the decisions for me. This is a responsibility I have to face.
A list of shorthand, unfinished questions and notes, all unnumbered, follows in no apparent sense of order save perhaps to the journal's writer. The majority has been scratched out, doodled on or around, or apparently added to after the fact.
We talked more, he and I. He wants to plan things out, to make order out of this chaos that is my life, and to an extent, now his, too. So quickly the three of us have had our lives intersect and become entangled. I wonder if he resents me, even a little, for taking up some of Auroran's time. Or what if it is the opposite? Occasional mindlinks and shared thoughts hardly mean I know either of them, nor they I, whatever secrets we have all shared.
He left to run errands or do scholar things or maybe chase after little girls, I have no idea. So now I'm here on this little island by myself, left with my own thoughts. I spent a while with my back against the roots of the tree that, inexplicably, is alive and well on this floating hunk of earth, and my palms on my stomach while I pretended I wasn't thinking about the things Procrastin suggested I actually think about.
I have to figure so much out and there's no one to make the decisions for me. This is a responsibility I have to face.
A list of shorthand, unfinished questions and notes, all unnumbered, follows in no apparent sense of order save perhaps to the journal's writer. The majority has been scratched out, doodled on or around, or apparently added to after the fact.
Whose choice is it? Mine? His? It's? Nobody's?
What will he say?
Go with P and Au? What do I say?
Would anyone notice?
Who do I listen to?
corsiel zeresar kirunna sarannael kagalis iostoer kirihael mirhael
Is it alive? A soul?
I feel so alone right now.
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