As time passes and the acts of men become history, the thing that I find weighing most heavily on me is, in fact, simply that – the sense of burden. The years upon which I could write of the toils of man without the inclusion of my own name have gone, and I am now more worldly than I would have ever thought to be. To think that there was once a pitiful woodland recluse whose passing could’ve gone unremarked by all save the tree beneath which he took his last breath; to think that this man, a causal nothing unbeknownst to the even most watchful gods, would find himself entitled and emboldened upon the field of battle, I would’ve pitied your madness and bid you step back into your dimensional doorway. I have found a home and a purpose. These things bring me trepidation as well as pride, I am as fearful as I am fulfilled. For a very long time, responsibility lurked at the treeline while I lay safely tucked away from it in the fog and shadow of the forest, beholden to the life of no man and the ministry of no nation. Now I am an heir, and a protector.
(The penmanship changes drastically here, even seeming to be written with the opposite hand.)
Such a woeful merry-andrew am I, that my eyes can spot an arrow between the teeth of my enemies but fail to see the good things immediately in my fore. Yes, I once was a craven wretch, but rightly steered by those far wiser, I am now in the light of good sense. Even still, the magnitude of my mental bankruptcy cannot be overstated!
I am indeed in the company of many a fair individual, all of whom share recognition for bringing reform to my idle ways. In this way, I feel a certain completeness, but it is two-faced. A younger me had a heart with nothing kept dear, but so filled with nothing was that heart that it was as if I was unwanting of anything in this world, beheld by no urge and compelled by no duty. And in my greatest hours of pain, even this nothing was drained away like blood from a wound, producing a true void around which my very soul so greatly ached. This was the penultimate realization of my own arrogant retreat from personal sufferance, a path which I had always known would bring me to ruin, yet one that I could not muster the constitution to step away from. But it was new and old friends, as well as my own personal hauntings, that have stirred something in me and caused my heart to well with honest feeling, like the blood rushing back into a limb parched for it. And I think that this delicate balance between nothingness and emotion, I believe this is what it is to truly have business with life.
And as I sit with my malnourished heart, left ventricle dry and calcifying with half my body withering into a desiccated husk, I reflect upon the forebearers of my newfound sense of inner cosmos, and give thanks to they who delivered my soul from a most hellish boredom. For if not for them, gods be genuine, I would most certainly be walled up in the cavity of a great oak, feeding upon acorns and chattering unintelligibly. As a proud bushtail, I am conf
(The tip of the pen strokes off sloppily, interrupting the words.)
Assuredly, I am fortunate. The ghost within me has lead me to great things, though I am left perplexed and cannot discern whether it was my own restlessness or the workings of some greater thing. What I do know is that with this new vitality slowly burns a need for progress. Much in the way that I could not bear to linger in one place in the world before, now I cannot remain in one state of being within myself and in my duties. I will never have the kind of unconflicted amity that I enjoyed in days past, but from these moments onward, I think that I can find comfort in a personal peace of greater substance. And, yes, perhaps I owe much to the wile of others for this revelation.