An old journal full of research by Hystis.
I have come to the conclusiom that life is what we make it. There is a collective consciousness that pervades us all. This determines us. This makes the moments of life interminable. There are few things that tap into this. This pen is so like many things, and yet it seems sharper, distinct. My script is angular, and it is the proper utensil to use for this task. Is it so, or do I make it so?
There is no answer to this. I know that there is only the complication of the question; this question, and others that have come to me while living here in Idylla, among the Kollossae. Everything is fabricated, from the pillars to the clothing. There are impediments to impediments, and every night among the heavens only follows a day amidst clouds.
I tire of this place and these people, this life and these ways. Were it only the troubles of a complicated life, I could perhaps bear it. But it is more than that. It is the uncertainty of this existence, the tenuous grasp of the real. There is nothing tangible, only imagined tangible, and there is no way to separate my thoughts and feelings from what they inhere.
And the Kollossae never question this. They instead heap praise upon the uncertain, foppish rulers and the imaginary figures of their religion. We have lost the stone that is our nature, and have become deliberate and foolish creatures. Our nature is hidden behind a veil of philosophy and fashion, politics and law. It does not need to be this way.
Take, for example, the Jottun. Their way is direct. Their existence is simple. Theirs is the truth if ever there be any. Rather than live with my hands in the sky, I will join them with my feet on the earth.