Aeal

Lost-draft

“Who am I? I do not know. Seems to have been too long ago.” Too long ago, so long ago was the story last been told. I do not know when light first shone upon the darkness and the cold. It does not matter, though, I hold, because the story has been lost, or hid so cleverly by me, that none may find it but the sea.

Tempt time, tempt death, tempt destiny, for none are so fickle as I can be. Wherefore within, wherefore without; nor men nor demons know the spot. But how could they? It does not exist! Thus far has been a cunning trick. Who am I? I am not here!

Men who speak with air are sick, so delve not, search not, within here. Pass the point of memory, there lies nothing but a gate.

Break the gate and one can see the scattered remnants of me, just me― for the story’s mine, to keep and seal, where! where! where! Am I but blind and deaf to thee? Tell me, where lies the memory?

History to none but me, this is my treasure, and the key― to finding me, thus saith I, the sage, the emptily-minded twisted me.

And who am I, truly who I am? Don’t ask me, I do not know.


Do the words one utters before death tend to be truer, or can they be a lie?
--Subaru, X/1999