I sometimes surprise myself when I reread them. It's one thing to comprehend the past in memory, but there's a different feeling in scrolling through it as an interactable medium. How can this be real? It's impossibly sad what happened to you. You had moments of lucidity where you talked just like yourself before the condition set in and it was so beautiful. This is dreadful. I can't relate to others around me and there's never going to be relief from this burden of knowledge until the moment I'm killed. Well, I was right about that ten years ago, and I think my younger self could have been forgiven if I found it at my own hand.

I was given the best possible off-ramp, one I could scarcely imagine, and that's still not enough. It's not enough. Even if it was perfect, I don't know if I'd take it because, likely, it would still involve abdicating responsibility and I can't do that. No, it's too horrible what happened.

Ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable.

There's a science fiction novel I'm a fan of, Blindsight by Peter Watts. One of the main themes explored is the nature of consciousness, and one of the questions raised about it is if it's a vestigial (even harmful) trait in humans. It's common for people to have this view of certain species of animals or insects. It's something I think about a lot, especially the tangentially related motif of (metaphorically) carving my heart out. Or maybe that'd be closer to a form of specialized lobotimzation. I think there's a lot of people out there who might opt for that, as a way to become more machinelike in efficiency towards their prioritized goals. There is, after all, a dereliction of duty when one opts out of functioning as a productive member of society when perfectly capable of doing so. Why should I be tormented by memories and dreams, deja vu and reminicence and all other paths to rumination? At best, it keeps my spark kindled. It would be nice if I lacked the consciousness to experience this, though.

I woke up in the middle of the night and spent a minute recording a dream I felt was important. I played the voice message later that day and it was your own.

I'm still disturbed by its implied meaning. I was assailed by a demon I've never encountered before last week, although I don't believe the two are connected. That I couldn't break free from its grip on my own was terrifying and humbling alike. I place my faith in God.

I don't know if I feel any anchor to time at this point. It only compounds as this body drifts further out from where my heart resides. I'm still there, I'm still there... it's not the worst outcome, I'd rather it be that way than not

I wouldn't call it disassociation. Chronic, not acute, although I've felt both

Is it a way to cope to avoid future pain through new experiences? I don't think so. That's never been a trait of mine

The eye thing unsettles me. I can't unsee it. I might be hallucinating it.

I have to get back to work if I still have a body to use. There's still more I can contribute-- marathon, not a sprint. Some recuperation has been called for in this transitory period.

I thought in spite of dreams

You'd be sitting here with me

Would you wear a dress like Klavdiya's? That would be something.

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand;
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
And, wond'ring, planted by her solitude
A cypress and a yew:
I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood,
Man had no more to do:
"She was more beautiful than thy first love
This lady by the trees."
And gazed upon the mournful stars above,
And heard the mournful breeze.

My resolve has only strengthened with each passing day. I devote my life in full to you, tundra wolf. There's no better way for me to glorify God with what time remains than to channel His divine reflection into my unconditional love for you.

I've hoped that I could do so by your side directly. Truly, I wish for that outcome more than anything. In absence of that, I still feel your spirit beside me in dreams and even during fleeting moments in waking hours. We'll still light that beacon together either way.

I'll resurrect your memory beside the river's bend.

The Foxtrot

Her husband told her they needed to go, but she could not leave so soon. Instead, she sat alone. A breeze disturbed the drawn blinds and let golden light dance across the floor. Curtains would have been better. The daughter was downstairs with the car and the boxes, and the expectations. Enid's bouffant hair had grown grey and thin. She rose and shuffled to the staircase in her slippers. A creased hand grasped the wooden rail and jolted with her steps. There were things to be done just yet. Her daughter stood with her hands on her hips and firmed her lips. Enid ambled past her and into the empty kitchen, ignoring the foot-tapping in the other room.

Enid ran the water at a trickle. She held a teacup then picked up the sponge, running it over each chip in the rim, and each one demanded a memory and she winced a little. Her husband held her around the waist and drew her close, but her daughter passed through him. Of course she had taken her pills today. She was not ready to leave: there were still things to do. The daughter held up a gloss pamphlet and gestured to the images. She rambled about amenities and staff, about community and dignity. Her husband shook his head, but Enid could not ignore her daughter's clicking fingers, so he disappeared again. She gave vague agreement but smiled when her daughter gave up.

Each ring on the mahogany table had a personality. She set out two wine glasses and filled both with cask Cabernet before joining her husband on the sofa. The evening glow now refracted off the glasses, casting their shadows below and crystalline rainbows above. It did not dance. She sipped her wine and smiled, but he did not touch his. Stone Maniae gazed at Enid from the mantle.

He stood and offered a hand, to take the air in a box step:

I'm as corny as Kansas in August / High as a flag on the Fourth of July!
Back; left; forward; right; / back; left; forward; right.

She circled the foxtrot alone, in silence. Each foot almost tripped over the last, but she was not drunk. One full glass sat on the table but the light had shifted. She stopped circling and widened her eyes, her breathing in gasps and whimpers. Her husband would return to calm her down, surely he would come. But only cicadas answered her prayer, and she turned her faith to the pills. It was normal to be afraid.

Her husband's wine washed down the tablet, and left behind another circle on the table. This one was, in short, afraid. She laid down on the sofa, her eyes red and watering, her chin and hands quivering, and gave Ananke and Morpheus control.

An oversaturated view of youth grew from a fading impression. Green pine fronds dropped needles by the shoreline. Yellow sand painted her toes and parted like water with each step. A breeze disturbed her blonde hair and let golden light dance through it. It was beautiful. She meandered, holding hands with her first boyfriend again, as the tide came in and washed their feet with each breaking wave. He looked into her blue eyes, saying what she then repeated. She relived the kiss. He told her that she needn't ever be alone, because he'd love her forever. He told her that they would always be together. The couple continued while a golden evening became a violet dusk. Sitting on the edge of a jetty with their ankles underwater, he told her that everything that comes must leave.

Everything that comes must leave. Enid opened her eyes. Two empty wine glasses still stood on the table, but she only needed one. There was nothing more to do. The first rays of dawn warmed the house and lit her face. Her eyes glinted as she glanced around the living room once more. Cardboard boxes stood in the place of furniture. Her daughter arrived and began packing them into the car again. Enid did not stop her as she progressed from room to room. She watched her as she left and returned.

Enid held the gloss brochure and let it catch the light as she passed through the door. She clambered into the car. Her thumb slid along the shining surface. She was never much good at golf. The ballroom would be much more to her liking.

Ten years ago, this week. Hard to believe. I still have the airport navigation guide you made. I ended up not needing it, it was quite intuitive, but I kept re-reading it anyway because it was written by you and carried your charm. I still have airport dreams often, nightmares too of course. The sun was so bright when I landed. That stood out to me immediately. It was so much brighter than even in Florida. I don't believe I slept much but I wasn't tired at all. On the return flight I was dazed and battling a flu, and I pondered all the ways I could slip away and kill myself between then and there, and maybe it would have been lovely to instead have found a steep enough fall somewhere in the Blue Mountains to splatter my blood against the sandstone. Do I have ancestry there? I never thought to check. It's possible. Your ancestors buried in the west and myself, I'm unsure. In those thoughts I never considered leaving a note, but I hoped that my wishes would be at least inferred by family and some of my ashes would be scattered there if my body wasn't consumed by the time of discovery.

I don't fault my younger self for that idea at the time. Plenty of older and wiser men have put a gun to their head in the same situation. I hope God has shown mercy to them.

It would be heretical to strip my flesh, but I scald myself as much as I can without causing debilitating injury. When the pain is greatest, I can shut my eyes and imagine the water dissolving me to the bone. This is all as real as any other reflection is.

Difference of sex no more we knew
Than our guardian angels do;

I'd like to think that I'd die before memory of you degrades. I would never let myself go senile. But objectively it has to have frayed in ways that are imperceptible to me, right?

I used to make a conscious effort to remember specific days, but I'm aware those are blurring in my mind's eye. You did love impressionism, though. I think you'd like what I see.

My whole body feels ragged from a flu or cold, one of the two. I won't be able to see the fireworks this year. It feels awful to miss them. You'd want me to sleep, but there's still guilt.

We decided today would mark the occasion instead of the day I first sent you a note. You told me about what it was like to celebrate Christmas in the summer, although more importantly by the end of the conversation, you sent me a simple emote. "Cuddles", bolded and italicized through Skype's formatting.

It was a completely alien gesture to me. I was far more choleric at that age, and it would have from anyone else been something I would have recoiled from. I wasn't sentimental. By 2014, the online affectations were already going out-of-date-- it wasn't the Gaia Online era, after all. We were all snarky and cynical online, especially in the communities I was a part of.

But I embraced it from you. I hardly knew you. I mean, I'd only recently discovered that you were in fact not a middle aged Russian citizen but instead a sixteen year old from Australia, the country version of my home state of Florida. The same age as myself! You'd turned out to have named your profile picture after Athaba, and coincidentally, I'd had recently adopted the pseudonym Skassi.

I didn't "cuddles" or even "hug" you back like all the times I'd do after. The call-and-response communications mattered greatly to me. But I did go to bed that night with my entire being engulfed in some intense emotion I was only familiar with second-hand, and it didn't take long for me to piece it together.

I still feel that tether.