-The following is the partially deciphered text of a forlorn, hidden journal, written in braille, a series of well placed dots expressing the user's thoughts and revelations. It is a a breathing testament that all thought is not necessarily coherent, but yet, not always mistaken…
…it is testament that the path is not always clear, even when laid out in front....-
Given to feelings, given to movements of sentiment, one would think that it would be easy to produce a deluge of emotions. They would be right. Even darkness feels.
At Port, I decided to attend a rumor I had heard in murmurs flung amongst street patrons. The city was wonderfully alive, abuzz with musical anticipation at an impending bardic duel to be enacted after a unique theater presentation. Truly, were it were easy for me to describe the theatrical performance it would enhance my journal's description of the night's event; instead, the gasps and screams of the audience will have to suffice for the imagined tale that that is being committed to record. A machine, a form of light projection, was set up to create what was described as light generated into realistic, moving beings. Seems that, logically speaking, the actors were nothing more than creations of the machine, a series of convincing light projections. They must of been effective. Correction.
They were effective.
Gasps, screams, accelerated heartbeats and held breaths…all these cues were apparent to me. As well as the expelled…gas…from a few patrons. We all know that scares, true scares, can produce some visceral reactions. Speaks more to the weight of the presentation, a tale about a woman impregnated by a hideous beast, resulting in a grotesque spawn that eventually grew to possess the will of the town elders. As I stated, the story was clear, but its effect on viewers was moreso. Unfortunately, I cannot state the realism of the projection. That part will always be a mystery to me.
The tears from not knowing, those will always be clear to me….
The duel afterwards, by Masters Da-…Da…Zid-Zi…two very talented bards, was a soothing, auditory feast for me. Though their tunes were hauntingly beautiful, moving and full of life brought forth from strings and wood, I was plunged into a momentary depression. Not in an ill manner. On the contrary, it was a clarion call to stored emotions. Old loves, lovers, memories and stories, brought forth in a fully bracing impact, slung forward from the unknown recess of my mind where they were vainly put away…permanently.
Truthfully, I should have been angry at them for stirring up old sinful and quiet nights. Sentiments of those faces I cannot see, I can no longer remember…they were put far away for a reason. Self preservation. But the musical duel reminded all that being alive means being susceptible. I…thank them, though the memories have been stored, forced away, once more. Still, I thank them.
Yesterday was…difficult. Trust, clarity, expectations. Where do you manage to produce a friendship that kills? Yes, the question is ludicrous. Never to be openly asked, never brought forth and questioned. But moments in life may require that such questions be put forth. Better said, life may require such 'requests'.
I knew he would refuse; can't blame him. He knows very little of my past, but I know less. It would mean 'innocent' blood on his hands, under confusing circumstances for someone he does not yet understand. In the end, it would spell clearly a full loss for myself, and a defeat for the knife wielder. Do I have a right to ask him such a sullied favor, or from anyone else for that matter? But do true innocents have the right to be slaughtered against their will? El-…El…Eleora, she confirmed in a way the potential existence of an unrequested sin which has its suspicions rooted into the remainder of my soul. I thought it was a figment of my imagination, a twisted, macabre hallucination. Perhaps not. But the consequences will be the same if precautions are not set into place. Yet, do I have the right to ask, any of them, to swing the knife if it comes to that? My order members will not do it. I cannot ask any of my sisters, especially Tab-ta…Tabith..her or Sha-..y…and Eli. Eli. Nei-…she would, as perhaps Eraly-…they would. I think because they understand. But perhaps they understand too well, and would reject on the premise of hope and recovery.
She would laugh at me. As the words are being permanently marked into the parchment, fingers moving carefully over each minute fiber, I am somewhat convinced that the conversations held yesterday were not real. Dream-like perceptions of mistaken options open to me. If I were to ask them if yesterday's words truly happened, would they say "no", leaving me to wonder about my sanity again? Or would they say "yes", appalled and vexed by my request, then leaving them to question my sanity for me?
…I-…wai-…wait. Reading this through again. It's not…What was the question again?
What did I ask? Who did I ask?…..
-The text ends with a soft mink paw, in red ink, and several oily orange splotches marking the end of the missive…-
