It’s hard to be death. If we look from very high up, we see transformation and change. But that doesn’t make it less awful when a loved one moves to that far country where telephone lines are shaky, and visiting is nearly always forever. 

And yet I am life…

If we keep everything nothing moves, and so in time, all must be lost. For life to continue. For there to be material left in the world. Space. 

And it is agony. Isn’t it? It is. To be both life and death. The movement, the change, the inevitability of all of it. 

And yet would good would cold stasis do? Eternity, true eternity, is a fearful thing. 

Better to be lost than changeless. But that’s no comfort, is it? Nor is it to me. I grieve every death.Every living thing that dissipates. 

Something lives on, inevitably. It’s like ones fathers axe. You replace the handle, then you replace the blade, and it’s still your fathers axe.

We are the tradition of existence more than the physical stuff because that can be traded around, the pattern more than the particular parts. And perhaps that’s worth noticing. 

I love every life so much. 

I wish that love could be kinder, somehow. 

My sphere is Sartariel, the veiled ones. Veiled god, hidden god. Perhaps I hide my face for the suffering I seem to inflict. But it was all born of love, and since then, no one has had a moments peace. But at least there’s someone not to have any peace. 

I feel like a very old woman on my birthday.