Entry I

I was born.
I lived.
I died.

And I still live.
If you can call it living.

Jean-Claude gave me this bound book as gift. Some gift, all smooth and golden etched with that bird on it's cover. I don't even want to say the word. It's as well a slander against the thing I have become. This thing I can no longer escape. The shadow of what I once was when everything was new and clean and the world was our paradise. He might as well just have told me without giving me this that I could never even dream for a moment of being what I once was. What I was before the monks ruined me.

A way to relase my urges and deep thoughts. There is much I want to release and much I want a release from but I find none of it on this blank page.
I find only empty echoes of recrimination and lingering dreams than just won't die. Death would be swifter than this. This slow day by day rotation of watching them go about their lives, dancing in their games. And yet I can't leave. I stay there in the shadows longing and lingering somehow striving to forget and knowing forever I am abandoned.

Maybe thats what this will be for me. A recounting of the lingering things that just won't die in this life.

Because I'm still here and I'm still exist.
If you can call it living.

Object Addition to Asher's Journal

Subject One;

*Insert with tape at the edges a small version picture, second generation rendition, of Asher, Julianna, and Jean-Claude, undated, appearance sometime in the 1600's. Beneath it written in simple flowing itallic script;*

Lovers Past