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month record rogue 4 4 1
When the Core of the Land breathes for a third time, a thought will return to the flames. That is when he will welcome death with open arms.
But before that, he must complete his duty: to compose an ode for the next thought to come after, so that it may sing for the breath, just as he obtained enlightenment from his ancestor, who has already returned to the flames.
From the breath of the land he was born, and in the breath of the land he will rest. This is every thought's entire life.
And now, he looks within, counting the drops of black rain passing through his formless body. This is the only way he can sense the passage of time. He has always wondered which thought was the one to come up with this idea.
'Ah. The first of my ancestors to sense time must have been able to experience many emotions I cannot in the span of three breaths.'
A distinct emotion—an experience named 'desire' by past thoughts—causes an instant of fluctuation within him, but just as quickly, he returns to tranquility. The enlightenment left by his ancestors included many ways to shield himself from such disturbances.
There are more important matters to focus on. He has not yet completed his duty, after all.
Dividing his attention to look within and sense the passage of time does not slow him. He continues on as he always had, breaking apart the music of the land's exhalation into its component syllables—
And then he sings.
'I should be able to complete my record before I return to the flames, but...'
But there is no difference between the recombined syllables he used to record the patterns of this breath, and the ones left behind by every single one of his ancestors... The same song repeated over and over, thought after thought.
Change is what every thought treasured the most, longed for the most. Tragically, the last time a thought was able to notice and record a change was nearly a hundred million breaths ago.
'Even if the breath is now immutable, I shall not give up.'
He does not despair. After all, such a dangerous emotion had long since been noted and excised by past thoughts.
During a dark age stretching for hundreds of breaths, many generations of thoughts fell to 'despair' and gave up singing. It nearly snuffed out the possibility of subsequent thoughts accepting the ancestors' enlightenment—the very existence of their lifeform was threatened.
But suddenly, he notices it. A discrepancy in what should have been an unchanging combination of syllables. A disharmonious echo.
At first, he thinks it a mistake brought about by focusing too much on tracking the passage of time, so he checks and checks and checks again, before breaking out into ecstasy—
'...I found one! A change...'
'It's here! It's here in this one breath of the Core of the Land!'
In that instant, the thought is overwhelmed by a multitude of inexplicable emotions. He might not have experienced them before, but he is certain these emotions are what the ancestor who first discovered how to sense time felt!
Surprise. Excitement. Worry. Panic. Curiosity. Satisfaction.
There is not enough time left to identify every emotion he feels. All he can do is try to pinpoint the location of the echo while riding the galloping breath of the land to his destination.
He is itching to sing.
Before the next breath, he would sing that dissonant melody himself.
And then, he sees a lifeform he has never... no, no thought has ever seen before.
'...You're not in the ancestors' records. Are you born from the breath of the land?' The thought excitedly asked the echo.
'No, I am from beyond this great land. I heard you singing within the flames, and found myself here,' the white echo replied. 'You may call me by my name. Civilight Eterna.'
'Name... Civilight Eterna... What is a 'name'?'
'Our self-identity.'
'I think I should have one of those. When the Core of the Land took its first recorded breath, the thought at the time sang a set of syllables—
'Sarkaz. That is my name.'
