Though these flames were not ignited by me, I continue to retrieve kindling from the woods. I surrender myself to their throes. Though I did not incite this war, I still vainly brandish my blade at ghosts. The clash of steel perpetuates still the song which deafens me. This fire was the furnace which tempered these manacles – yet I forged them therein, and bound them upon myself.
The maelstroms submerged me, and cast me to this perdition – yet I crafted and steered the vessel, and chose my crew. My own imperfection damns me here. I suffer because I deserve nothing more. I am a shadow framed by the light because I will not bear my own torch, and blaze a way through the abyss – because I will not stray beyond the confines of this map, which guides me along my cyclical, directionless path. My abjection is my own.
I define myself by the absence of meaning.