2024-05-04: Journal of "And Yet it Still Isn't Realized"

• Log: 2024-05-04: Journal of "And Yet it Still Isn't Realized"
• Cast: Asciel Colette
• Where: everywhere
• Date: U.C. 0099 05 04
• Summary: Every day, the conclusion feels out of reach. There is no longer an acceptable form to take. After all - what could an impure, rotten <redacted> realize for herself after such a futile demise?

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When, exactly, did the heart become so mismatched?

They are not fooled. They understand without saying it. They've pressed their finger on the petals which the butterfly nests upon.

It is not something possible to put into words. And yet, the words do not stop spilling out. If they cannot define the malady, they will reach and claw in desperation for the truth.

---

Some will say it was 'always' this way - that the spool of fate weaved into everyone would have sewn that backwards to begin with.

Those unthinking decades, memories of rote functions which feel like death, had not felt like 'fate' at all.

The engine of order at the hidden city's center weaved webs removed from destiny. From its well-engineered loom, the silk of constraint, of oppression, of protection, all unfailingly knitted a now-burned tapestry. Doors that should not be opened were locked. Actions that should not be expressed were gunned down. Threats to sanctity and security were repelled.

Not once did it complain.

Not once did it ever express contrary opinion to its construction.

It was a beautifully crafted, perfectly made "fortress of iron", built around a god which would supply devils their feast.

It did not resist its own existence, and yet now, imagining the idea of accepting this nature made her nauseous and infuriated.

---

Some will say it comes from a moment of understanding - that there is a point of realization around which a new color of thread is dyed.

That agonizing day, of knowing the wider world was a place of calamity and ruin, had not felt like 'recoloring' at all.

A guardian deity received the message that a city could topple in an instant. The loom sputtered to a halt, and its cloth became so clearly inadequate against the spears, guns, and swords of the outer world. Doors that should not be open could be forced open. Actions that should not be allowed were not expressed. Threats to sanctity and security could no longer be repelled.

And from then on, it led a life of constant complaint.

At every moment, it challenged its obviously inadequate construction.

It was an incomplete, vulnerable 'castle of glass', and the god tasked with defending its keep withered before still-feasting devils.

It fought valiantly to make its existence more, capable of withstanding any end of the world - and yet now, even the existence which most embodied this aspiration felt alien and distant.

---

Some will say that it is a slow, gradual process - that it seeps into the self from the myriad colors others give to you.

That wonderful day, of challenging the impossible essence of the human psyche, had not felt like 'connecting' at all.

A breathless idol bloomed with a star of brilliant cyan. The loom caught and tangled around this new, indomitable thread of song, one that could dissolve even an apocalyptic promise from the cosmos. Doors that were forced open could be sealed shut forever. Actions that were too painful could be made no longer allowable. Threats to sanctity and security could be made alien ideas of the past.

And still, she called out in disdain.

At every moment, the circumstances of her creation felt insurmountable.

It was a messily self-woven 'temple of madness', and the goddess began realizing her own innate devilish nature.

A brilliant firework of decision felt like it had the power to reforge her existence, and yet now, it became unclear if it was enough to change what had been decided for her.

---

...Some will say that only you can know it, and that only you could put the way you bloom into words.

That perilous day, of falling beyond the boundary between death and rebirth, had not felt like 'blooming' at all.

...How could it?

She stood in the desert with nothing but her own ruin to her name. The loom vanished. Doorways, and the walls they breached, dissolved to dust with nothing behind them. Every action became permissible and painful. And now, the threatening nature of the world seemed unimaginably vaster than herself.

And so, she sang.

Despite casting the self others had created into the fire - somewhere, somehow, it still felt undeniable.

It was a tattered, blood-soaked 'cancer of delusion', and the devil clung to the hope of a goddess for dear life.

...And it was obvious to everyone what it had made her.

Somewhere, between the jet black fog of creation, and the cloudy white fog of the present, everything became misaligned.

From within, it still felt undefinable. But the silhouettes of the world beyond began to point fingers at a truth that was not possible.

...Hadn't she promised someone to clear away every remnant of the fog that consumed her life?

Is it breaking that promise to be lost in it herself?

---

...Some will say there is no knowing it. Some will say that believing oneself to be unfitting to oneself is simply deceit.

..."But the only one allowed to tell me a false truth like that...is myself."

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