II.
Funerals are pretty, I suppose. Flowers fit neatly in columns, blooming even in death with its roots cut off. Corpse dressed in fine attire, served like cake for the mourners as they move in line and give final goodbyes- worthless goodbyes and regrets that should have been resolved when the living were living. Funerals are pretty, nevertheless. It's comforting, has order, and produces a sense of compromise among all things.
But my funeral isn't beautiful. The worst thing in life is when a person knows their fate is sealed, yet spends everyday afterward concentrating on that one day, that one moment when decay becomes father, mother, and lover. My fate is sealed here on the Temple of Time. It is quite simply an open funeral taking these arduous steps to the top of this placid mountain. The evening sky slides the day like a fine casket. The wind will be my mourners. And sadly, my bones will be the confetti, evidence I once roamed in this pathetic life.
I climb these stairs, hoping for a quick service. Maybe that would be too easy. Maybe I'm not a martyr looking for the ultimate peace. No, I'm not in peace. I'm never in peace. I hate being here. I hate resenting. Why do I resent? Why do I hate? Why are funerals so dainty and death so crude? I confess to you, friend. I have confessions-many confessions, enough to raise mountains if I whispered to the ground of all the death that follows me. I wish evil was something like a body part, something attached to me like an arm or finger. Something I could label evil itself, because sincere evil has no sense, no justification of right or wrong. Evil is whatever good is not, and good is not many things. But I am not evil. And that is the dilemma haunts me to this very moment. I am not the monster they make of me. I regret. I feel emotional pain. I am you. If I was truly that heartless, none of those pains would affect my life, but they do, slowly and meticulously. The sense of right and wrong balances me between them. Evil follows me.
That boy was stupid. Stupid boy. It is a sad day when a boy becomes the man. It is even more tragic to know when that man is a brave man, and that was exactly what he was, a brave man. But bravery is only jewelry to some people, something to be worn when in dire need. He, however, defined that word in every sense of it. Brave boy but dead. I killed him. I murdered him. I enjoyed sliding my sword through his neck. I heard his desperate attempt to gag for air, his fight to stay alive. I saw cough blood with disgust and with tremendous shock, but he never look defeated or scared. He fought like man and he died like one. I, too, died a little, but not like a man, nothing like a man. I am nothing. That boy is dead, his princess in mourning, and I have no equal-no equal to extend my purpose, my will, my desire to live on. I have no equal to challenge my existence as the Ganon. I am nothing, now. What is there left to do when the climax of life has passed? The ending has been done, and I must be the one to linger on. That boy, so young, so stupid, why did he have to die?
So I track to the Temple of Time, praying to live back in the past when the battle was eternal and finality was only a myth. Endings is the true evil, friends. Closure. Resolution. Finish. There is nothing more to conquer than death itself.
Funerals are pretty, I suppose. Flowers fit neatly in columns, blooming even in death with its roots cut off. Corpse dressed in fine attire, served like cake for the mourners as they move in line and give final goodbyes- worthless goodbyes and regrets that should have been resolved when the living were living. Funerals are pretty, nevertheless. It's comforting, has order, and produces a sense of compromise among all things.
But my funeral isn't beautiful. The worst thing in life is when a person knows their fate is sealed, yet spends everyday afterward concentrating on that one day, that one moment when decay becomes father, mother, and lover. My fate is sealed here on the Temple of Time. It is quite simply an open funeral taking these arduous steps to the top of this placid mountain. The evening sky slides the day like a fine casket. The wind will be my mourners. And sadly, my bones will be the confetti, evidence I once roamed in this pathetic life.
I climb these stairs, hoping for a quick service. Maybe that would be too easy. Maybe I'm not a martyr looking for the ultimate peace. No, I'm not in peace. I'm never in peace. I hate being here. I hate resenting. Why do I resent? Why do I hate? Why are funerals so dainty and death so crude? I confess to you, friend. I have confessions-many confessions, enough to raise mountains if I whispered to the ground of all the death that follows me. I wish evil was something like a body part, something attached to me like an arm or finger. Something I could label evil itself, because sincere evil has no sense, no justification of right or wrong. Evil is whatever good is not, and good is not many things. But I am not evil. And that is the dilemma haunts me to this very moment. I am not the monster they make of me. I regret. I feel emotional pain. I am you. If I was truly that heartless, none of those pains would affect my life, but they do, slowly and meticulously. The sense of right and wrong balances me between them. Evil follows me.
That boy was stupid. Stupid boy. It is a sad day when a boy becomes the man. It is even more tragic to know when that man is a brave man, and that was exactly what he was, a brave man. But bravery is only jewelry to some people, something to be worn when in dire need. He, however, defined that word in every sense of it. Brave boy but dead. I killed him. I murdered him. I enjoyed sliding my sword through his neck. I heard his desperate attempt to gag for air, his fight to stay alive. I saw cough blood with disgust and with tremendous shock, but he never look defeated or scared. He fought like man and he died like one. I, too, died a little, but not like a man, nothing like a man. I am nothing. That boy is dead, his princess in mourning, and I have no equal-no equal to extend my purpose, my will, my desire to live on. I have no equal to challenge my existence as the Ganon. I am nothing, now. What is there left to do when the climax of life has passed? The ending has been done, and I must be the one to linger on. That boy, so young, so stupid, why did he have to die?
So I track to the Temple of Time, praying to live back in the past when the battle was eternal and finality was only a myth. Endings is the true evil, friends. Closure. Resolution. Finish. There is nothing more to conquer than death itself.