like oceans, i am infinite.

then.

the person in the mirror isn't you.

there's no one else it could be, yet, every time you catch a glimpse of yourself, it catches you offguard - like you were expecting someone else.

in your dreams, your hair is gold - your glass wings covered in feathers, your tail missing - something about you feels very shattered. there's something off about this body--

they say your nightmares are how you died in a past life. bugs and packed dirt fill your lungs for years until you realize they're memories. you claw at your head to get rid of them, when you finally see him.

you.

nothing ever goes according to plan. even with an entire life behind you, you still make the same mistakes. "again, but properly this time" turns out to be quite the daunting task. it feels like you have a fate - a destiny you can't escape - doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again. your hands are covered in ink as they sink into the floorboards.

"we can't do this again."

what the hell do you mean?! you can hear him screaming - but it was never about him. not anymore. not since he passed it on to You.

the light leaves your eyes.

now.

there are rumours of a demon of glass and pitch-black ink, who lives in a cottage in the woods - if you get lost, he may offer you food and shelter for the night. the details aren't important - no one actually believes such a tale. why would a demon offer anything but cruelty?

yet, after years of peace, his days have grown much more noisy and full of life - a few children taking permanent residence within his home. it's moreso an apathy than a kindness that guides his actions - throwing them out seems like too much work. they cause too much ruckus and problems - it's interrupting his work.

not that his work really exists for anything other than his own amusement, he supposes.

people come and go. seasons change. problems are presented to him and resolved. he taps his quill against the inkwell, knocking off the excess fluid. everything is so much noise and sound, isn't it? he begins writing something before being interrupted again. the piece becomes abandoned.

is this the right the past him had been searching for?

he can't say that he cares. people come and go. seasons change. problems are presented to him and are left to rot. everything is so much noise and sound, filtering into the background over a malaise of apathy. his garden is full of carefully maintained flowers, blooming up to face the sun.

it's for the best.