Today’s events mirror my thoughts from last night.

The speech I gave was inconsequential.  I have not bothered to slave over this speech in years.  The memory of the time is a Shadow of its own.  I serve as the Narn memory of the truth.  My words written in my journal, in these very pages, will be my ode to memory.  Never shall I remove a page, a misspelling or a poorly drawn man.  

The truth takes many forms I have found.  My truth is clear to me.  I see the truth in front of me.

There will be more that consider what I said allegory and metaphor as time stretches to the future.

After the dawn service – my memorial to all that fell in that War – I broke my fast with the young priest of Vas.  I was curious, you see.  I have lost my faith in gods.  In my mind, the gods failed their test long ago.  I wanted to talk to one who still held Vas in his heart.  

I have concluded that the only way to continue to believe in the gods is to not understand the War.  I cannot blame him.  He is young. He did not live through the War.  He does not remember death coming from the sky and in our dreams.  The time spent in the field, cold and in constant danger of discovery.  He does not remember the empty spaces at the table. The days that there were funeral pyres because there was no other way to process the number of bodies that littered the battlefield.  That littered the streets.  The Songs sang over entire families, entire sections of the city.  The villages that disappeared overnight.  The Valley that still is encased in glass.

Then the religious worried about the Chad’Rasha of the fallen.  Could they find peace when they were not buried under the city? When their families did not Sing over them and carry them to the bosom of Vas.

I worried about the living more than the dead.  Now – I suppose – I worry more about the dead.  The living forget.  In my interest in going forward I put the horror of the War in the background, focusing on hope more than death.  

Now this callow youth, this child priest tells me that there was no War.  That the War I spoke of was some internal fight we each must fight.  Oh he is reverential as he says it.  But he thinks I dreamt the whole thing which ultimately means he believes I am mad.

Allegories? Metaphor?

Yes, we each bear Darkness in our hearts, but who would commemorate that War?  That is a war with no end.  Even the best of us have moments of Darkness.  But the War happened.  It is in these pages.

I must remain the memory of my world.  The alternative is insanity.