11-13-2021, 06:24 AM
A bundle of papers are left on the rotted desk. Crude scrawls across most, illegible and useless to the reader. But a few? A few can be understood, between the shaky handwriting and damage of water, thought is given physical form in these words.
Sneek Wrote:I feel...
Lost.
No, that's... that's not right.
I can feel it. I can feel it gnawing. At the back of my mind, in the very words I speak. I can feel the degeneration. Of my mind slipping and slipping. I've been told it happened to our... tormentor and 'creator'. Of the strange speech patterns, of the paranoia. But is it by our design and nature? Or by the substances which we were exposed. It is far easier to convey my thoughts by written word than speech. The tics aren't present when the hand moves. But even then, it gets harder and harder to hold the pen. Some days, it shakes too much. Be it nerves being too active or degrading, I can feel it.
I'm scared. I can see it in their eyes. The plots, the plans, the schemes to depose of me. I can see it in their movements. Careful and guarded, ready to strike at the moment of weakness. Is it by their design and nature, that we are so treacherous? Is it by the environment in which we were raised, brutal and ceaseless in its torments? Or does something else cause such actions and thoughts?
Soon, we arrive in Esshar. To the promised land, of ruined city and expansive sewer. But... from what I have heard from travelers...? No, I dare not think it. Whatever is true, it matters not for the dream. But I suppose that's what scares me.
Do I have anything else beyond the demented dream of another? I'm lost. I know what we should do, but is it what I want to do?