wip

There is an instinct within me, perhaps in some foolish attempt to protect my ego from its own appraisal, to suggest that I had always known this faint buzzing behind my eyes. To present it as a constant childhood companion, one that I had ignored, or grown accustomed to via constant presence. That I had made some decision, spurred by deep instinct, to ignore is bright invitations. To assign some greater strength to my own convictions, that I had been worn down, as the sea weathers a cliff, as great lighthouses tumble in great descent. That I had not surrendered so easily, so readily, thrown open the gates to an unguarded mind. Perhaps it had been innocence, or finding myself too trusting, desperate for great salvation. Even here, now, I try to find justification in my own great virtues, to explain myself to you in a way that redeems me of all sin. But it is not this ledger that will find itself before some greater judge, it is me alone, so I will endeavour to present a record that remains true to my recolections. I do, however, ask for your understanding, know that I did only what I understood to be best, I have only ever been guided by goodness and curiosity (in that order.) A vessel in storm cannot be blamed for chasing light. But, you may draw your own conclusions. I first began to hear that terrible light on a day trip to the City, it had been bright and clear that day, but I remember it being colder than expected. My father had brought me along to run some errands, I had spent the last weeks shut inside my room, ostensibly preparing letters to universities both close and abroad; but the thought of leaving all I knew behind filled me with sickness, and I had done little but languish. Initially he'd suggested that my presence was simply to help him carry whatever goods he acquired throughout the day, he had, as we waited at the station, insisted that the ocean air would do me good, and as he had spat after discovering our train would be delayed; "If you're not to travel, you'd best start looking for work." He'd gestured vaguely at the porters busy around the station as he'd said this, though I expect this was more about himself than me, he'd sooner have me thrown across the tracks than allow me to earn my bread so honestly. I had remained silent. He took this as victory enough, and did not speak to me again until we were nearing the City. When he did, it was with lighter tone. Perhaps he had left his frustrations with me back at the station, I had hoped he would not collect them again on our return journey.