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The Book 2001-08-14 - 1:28 a.m. 
A very...dear book to me has recently come back into my hands. It's over a century old and probably my most valuable resource in terms of studying some western branches of mysticism and the history of science. The obscure to the common (well for people who are into this sort of thing) are all contained within this beautiful, faded leather binding. Less than a thousand were made...not even a tenth of those survive. This copy has seen better days. Getting it re-bound is going to cost a small fortune, but it's my family's only heirloom. It belongs to us. It is us. I simply call it "The Book." There is nothing of comparable value to my research endeavors; I doubt there ever will be. I trust these dead theologians and adepts without reservation. I never rely on anything or anyone questionable, not when it comes to my personal studies. Anyone who thinks I merely dabble in this stuff, take massive amounts of drugs on the side, or am in any way flippant about my passion are ignorant fools. I forgive people for being afraid of what they do not understand, though...and myself for having to be so defensive when speaking about this subject. It doesn't make any sense, it never makes any sense no matter how many times I ask the same damn question: Why, since I was a child, have people wanted to either corrupt or kill me? Rom have tried it, cultists with waaay too much free time on their hands have tried it multiple times...even people I loved and trusted. What the hell is it about me that causes this sort of bestial reaction? Am I such a point of awe or contempt for people? You follow what you like: sports, music, writing, anal sex, or anything else that you take a passionate interest in. For me, it's this. It's...me, plain and simple. The last time I tried to study the book was reading about the underside of the Rose War. Too much trouble concentrating, too little focus. I was young, inexperienced, hadn't applied anything practically yet. I'm older now, although not by much...but I feel better prepared to try focusing on the symbols and words again. It isn't like they're normal words. I get headaches, pain, develop symptoms apart from when I read a normal book. It's like when you have a song that reminds you of lost love..that same painful familiarity is known to me when I read about these things. I can't hope to explain this; it's rather pointless to explain this. Suffice it to say, I want to take up my passion again. At the least this book was written in English. If I have to read another smattering of English, Latin, and French, I think I'll go mad. |
