Intro Prologue
" Time is a storm in which we're all lost" - William Carlos Williams
The light of the day hath passed; its fragile life snuffed out, like that of a once burning fire. And now, unlike the stars above, I lie here in darkness, alone. With only the comforts of a self-ordained memory of the past I move to the window. The fields are glowing with pyreflies, humming with their warm glow; they provide me with a feeling that only a lover can; depth, emotion, and control. Those things I've been yearning for, the gratifications of times unspent and memories born anew. It's something only time can hold to its heart, and only time can change.
Yearning, desire, and lust; it's all the same, I start to introspect as I press my fingers gently against the cool glass of the window, If ever there were a time for change, it's now. The glass only mocks me with its transparent glow.
As if you care, I retort in my mind, with an affluence of bitterness.
The room is holding its own as I sigh and fall back into my bed. I try to force myself to sleep and push the moments out of my mind. The painful memories of years past, times long ago, and desires unmet. The memories are elusive at best, sketchy at the most, and vivid and full of desire. They were a wisp of light in a chaotic, impending darkness, but they were painful.
Far too painful, if only I hadn't let us go through with it, the memory of that day, on the Ragnarok, came flying into my head, I lost my mind that day, I lost everything. The chaos of time travel is much too liberating. Countless other ÒmemoriesÓ fly about my head; times of a childhood I had no knowledge of, times of happiness, which I never knew existed.
I couldn't dismiss the ghastly figures of years passed. They came to me through doorways, walls, and ceilings. They walked with me wherever I went, with deadened roses they'd haunt me. In my worst of nightmares they'd surround me, screeching how wrong I was for pushing us off into unknown territory.
All for the good of humanity, I think to myself as the times of feudal serfdom and trivial postmortem thoughts fly through me, think of your friends, loved ones, cling to those memories. The memory of that day came with intensity among the entourage of drivel currently in my mind, and as if they were still there I reply to myself, can't you see, I did?
No matter how much I need, or want to, I simply can't sleep. I soon find myself clutching what little known objects I can find which were scattered through my room, pictures mainly; the jagged edges of the glass broken by torments of temper and rage cutting my skin like butter.
My story has come to its breaking point, a climax all its own, yet in its own twisted irony I can feel the reaper hold me there, to make me suffer through the last memories of life I have.
My story is beginning.