Post by Ryuu Tenshi on Feb 12, 2008 21:43:48 GMT -5
An entry in one of Eder Fenah's private journals; unlike most Myst inhabitants Eder does not have a habit of leaving his journals about for people to read when he does not want them read.
henceforth, all journals which are kept so will be denoted "private". Even if a journal is not denoted so, it is unlikely you will have read it unless it is specifically stated.
The date on this entry is unknown.
***
What is perfection?
How can we define perfection?
I had a dream of a city of light, of soaring arches and pristine marble, all under a brilliant sun. It was around a sparkling, beautiful bay; trees lined the twisting streets; majestic mountains ringed it. Yet this alone was not enough – there are dozens of Ages with such fine cities. No... there was a difference, here. For each leaf was perfect; each drop of water; each pebble. Not perfect in that each leaf was free of blemish, no... it was that a leaf with said blemish was wholly, completely, totally that leaf; that the drop of water was completely, totally, wholly that water drop; the pebble completely, wholly that pebble. Things were perfect in imperfection and perfect in perfection. I say that all leaves, all cities, all bays and mountains, all rivers are but pale reflections of this place.
I must Write this dream.
But how?
Even now, the very quality that made this city perfect escapes me. I cannot put it into words (high speech or low!). Yet I am haunted, I must Write this place. I must, even if it means that I must Write each one of those leaves, each pebble, each water drop.
It will be done...
henceforth, all journals which are kept so will be denoted "private". Even if a journal is not denoted so, it is unlikely you will have read it unless it is specifically stated.
The date on this entry is unknown.
***
What is perfection?
How can we define perfection?
I had a dream of a city of light, of soaring arches and pristine marble, all under a brilliant sun. It was around a sparkling, beautiful bay; trees lined the twisting streets; majestic mountains ringed it. Yet this alone was not enough – there are dozens of Ages with such fine cities. No... there was a difference, here. For each leaf was perfect; each drop of water; each pebble. Not perfect in that each leaf was free of blemish, no... it was that a leaf with said blemish was wholly, completely, totally that leaf; that the drop of water was completely, totally, wholly that water drop; the pebble completely, wholly that pebble. Things were perfect in imperfection and perfect in perfection. I say that all leaves, all cities, all bays and mountains, all rivers are but pale reflections of this place.
I must Write this dream.
But how?
Even now, the very quality that made this city perfect escapes me. I cannot put it into words (high speech or low!). Yet I am haunted, I must Write this place. I must, even if it means that I must Write each one of those leaves, each pebble, each water drop.
It will be done...
