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Myca of Veirnan
19 November 2007 @ 12:58 pm
[the filter is added hastily at the top, in a near scrawl]

[filter: private]

it is coming, soon... twelve years. twelve years of them being gone. of watching them die. it is clearer every day, though perhaps it is only my imagination supplying my mind with images

mother, father ... my brothers and sisters... their faces are those of ghosts. clear for a moment, and gone in another. remembered by no one once i have gone. what do I know of them, anymore ...

twelve years, and I may have been with them, if Symeon and Edeyn had not arrived and saved me. What good has prolonging my life done for him, when we know, we all know, the time may come at any day... and yet some of them still cling on to false hopes, and whisper of miracles.

[progressively messier]

who wants to tell them that they are wrong, that their miracles are nothing but delay...? what more can I possibly do before I die, now? How long will it be before my cousin is able to let go?

... let go. when it is I who needs to... it is not fair, for him, and yet ... does he still believe there is a way? to what ends will he push his abilities? I am not

[flecks of blood]

enough for tonight ...

so tired
Mood: numbnumb
19 November 2007 @ 01:55 pm
Marias hasn't written for a while...or Karyl, for that matter.

I don't suppose

...Myca. I hadn't spoken to him for so long...I wonder...


I find I like Ann-Marie a bit more now that she's married to him.

[Filter: Erin, Kilian]

...how have you been?
Mood: contemplativecontemplative
19 November 2007 @ 09:36 pm
[Filter: Private]

What would it have been like, to turn sixty-seven with you at my side? What would our life together have been like, if I had not ended it before it ever had the chance to truly begin? I never loved you, but perhaps I could have, given enough years.

... heh, what an old man I've become, wasting so much time with all of these what ifs. The past is the past. Hindsight is ever clear, but I can't go back and do it all over again now. There is no point in dwelling on it. Yet I still

Forgive me, Cecelia -- but it's best you don't know, love. Nearly twenty years, since I've known you, and still I cannot ... it would do you no good to know. No good at all.
Mood: melancholymelancholy