S. Pentathol

I sometimes question my direction.

The people closest to me, those people that share my life, often tell me that I am much too hard on myself.

Conversely, I believe, that I am nowhere near hard enough on myself.

These last days I have found myself somewhat inexplicably sad; I had hoped that I would be past feeling sad over things that I cannot change by now.

Apparently I am still far too open, easy even. I almost wish I were still possessed of the suspicion that characterized my early adulthood; it made life much safer to inhabit.

Well from an emotional standpoint anyway. I tempted oblivion many times, and looking back I am very surprised that I am here to look back with surprise.

I am not completely hopeless, let me clarify: I am still thankful for many things in my life. It just seems as though the things that matter most to me will always be those that require baptism by fire.

I am sad to say that I am quite accustomed to being burned.

And obviously I am, as always, quite impressed by my facility with language.

Some things never change. Some things, do.

In my darkest moments, I believe that language will be my only legacy; all that will remain of the person I was, the passion that consumed me, the great love and greater sorrow that would come to define this mortal shell: words, these included.

I hope that more than that will be my speaker. I fear that it will be my Ender’s Game that speaks for me.

That, I think, is the moral of this particular story.

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