Preface

Words, it seems, are a poor medium for expressing the roots of suffering. The tears I've shed tonight map my journey with far greater clarity then I will ever dictate. Yet, I want... I need...

Precis of Pain

I am a troubled man.

(( Strike now, that shadowed cast, that fretful simulacrum; ))

The events of my life have conspired to... no. No ascribing blame. I did this to myself. That only makes it worse, really. I have evolved into a mass of contradictions; slowly becoming exactly the kind of person I grew to hate: static, biased, petty, afraid. Unwilling to learn. Unwilling to love. Unwilling to live.

(( Burnt upon the path by the hushed glow of the distant moon. ))

I've carried this burden for so long. I find that even as I set the stone aside my back remains bent, my muscles tearing with the memory of the weight. As I change, as I undo the damage I inflicted upon myself so long ago, I find myself seeking a new stone to take up. I range within, seeking new faults to devour.

(( Render the twisted conceit anew with each labored step. ))

I no longer know my path. I no longer know my destination. I only know that to remain as I was is death.

(( Song of Night, the gentle embrace, weaver of peace ))

I will go forward of course. It makes sense, I suppose. Needs must I have all my options stripped from me to clearly see what should have been obvious all along. My light is gone. I must stretch anew; growing toward the sun.

(( Whispers: "stand, in defiance of all, with joy in your heart." ))

Time will, as it always does. I must hence, whether I will or no. Now, at least, I can shed this weight and walk unburdened into the fading light.

(( "For Day shines bright, child of man, and you are not yet done." ))

I am a troubled man, but I am healing, and I am not yet done.