Revan knows, logically, that she has a mother. She knows that someone brought her into this galaxy and cared for her-loved her, even-enough to hand her over to the Jedi. She likes to imagine what her mother might've looked like, how her lips would've stretched when she smiled or how her hand might've engulfed Revan's when they'd walk to the market on the weekends. Maybe her head would tilt as she poured them both tea in the morning, or she'd tap her bottom lip when she was in thought like Revan finds herself doing far too often.
From time to time she loses herself in this imaginary life, this vision of one person who might make everything okay, who would've calmed her as thunderstorms stole over the plains of their imaginary planet, or brushed her hair when she was feeling ill: someone to console her and right all her wrongs.
It's the idea that there could be one safe place-at least one. One place where the galaxy doesn't know her name, where the past doesn't threaten to swallow her up in its enormity and its utter vagueness. Because Revan realizes that she will never remember her mother-she might not have remembered her even before her mind was swept away-and that emptiness is deep and weary and difficult to face. So it becomes where Revan retreats, where she imagines her and this not-a-person-but-an-idea skipping rocks across the sea, watching the waves catch them and drag them back to the shore.
You can't lose yourself in this way of thinking, her mother tells her, and Revan is quick to remind her, I'm already lost.
Because her mother isn't the only thing that's missing. No-if you look very closely, if you wipe away the mystique, strip down the armor of the image, and forget that grand person in the stories-if you take it all away, scrutinize it down to the last cell, the most minuscule portion-
You'll find that there isn't much left at all.