Rorschach's journal. January ........?
Rorschach's journal. January.
Not sure what day it is, anymore. Could either be counting this as January 2nd or January 11th, depending. Would appreciate it if someone could provide clarification for journal continuity purposes. Also, what little remains of my own sanity.
Have felt sick for over twenty-four hours now. Can't keep anything in stomach. Not even bread from bakery down street. Find it somewhat ironic that I feel more comfortable sleeping in half-furnished office than in reformed castle, considering memories.
Feels like Antarctica all over again. We fought, but what was meant to be a victory was twisted into something that may not even matter. No progress whatsoever. Only relationships mangled and destroyed, people set at each other's throats.
May not have felt or seemed like Armageddon to most of you, but believe me: it was. We destroyed our world. And now we have to live with consequences. Something new and old all at once. Familiar but unfamiliar, untrustworthy. Feels like waking from a nightmare that seemed certain and real. Tore down what was rotting and broken, and it rebuilt itself with rot remaining. Beginning to rethink assumptions about castle. Need better metaphor than rotting...requires further thought. Too tired for that now. Should find a place where I can rest.
[and once he's done writing, he tucks his journal away in his coat, pulls his scarf, mask, gloves, hat, and coat on, and begins to walk through town, hands stuffed in his pockets. once he reaches the edge of town, he doesn't even look up the hill to the castle, but circumvents around it and heads for the forest. he doesn't even think about where he's going, he just walks, his mind alternately going blank and overloading as he does.
finally, his footsteps bring him to a familiar clearing, where there's a waterfall breaking out from under a sheet of ice only to make its way down before disappearing under another one. the trees are bare and too slick with ice and snow to climb, but he's going to start tramping down a clear space, and sit himself down.]
Not sure what day it is, anymore. Could either be counting this as January 2nd or January 11th, depending. Would appreciate it if someone could provide clarification for journal continuity purposes. Also, what little remains of my own sanity.
Have felt sick for over twenty-four hours now. Can't keep anything in stomach. Not even bread from bakery down street. Find it somewhat ironic that I feel more comfortable sleeping in half-furnished office than in reformed castle, considering memories.
Feels like Antarctica all over again. We fought, but what was meant to be a victory was twisted into something that may not even matter. No progress whatsoever. Only relationships mangled and destroyed, people set at each other's throats.
May not have felt or seemed like Armageddon to most of you, but believe me: it was. We destroyed our world. And now we have to live with consequences. Something new and old all at once. Familiar but unfamiliar, untrustworthy. Feels like waking from a nightmare that seemed certain and real. Tore down what was rotting and broken, and it rebuilt itself with rot remaining. Beginning to rethink assumptions about castle. Need better metaphor than rotting...requires further thought. Too tired for that now. Should find a place where I can rest.
[and once he's done writing, he tucks his journal away in his coat, pulls his scarf, mask, gloves, hat, and coat on, and begins to walk through town, hands stuffed in his pockets. once he reaches the edge of town, he doesn't even look up the hill to the castle, but circumvents around it and heads for the forest. he doesn't even think about where he's going, he just walks, his mind alternately going blank and overloading as he does.
finally, his footsteps bring him to a familiar clearing, where there's a waterfall breaking out from under a sheet of ice only to make its way down before disappearing under another one. the trees are bare and too slick with ice and snow to climb, but he's going to start tramping down a clear space, and sit himself down.]