When looking in the mirror, one might notice the pale difference between the left eye and the right eye. The reason for this is apparent--the left eye is glass.
One cannot remember, though, why it should be.
There is a diary on the table, and one might look through it if it catches one's eye. There is little more than a list on the inner page--the only one not torn out.
June 14, 4085 - Quistis died today.
August 3, 4087 - Zell died today.
December 30, 4087 - Squall died today.
There are faint splashes of fainter ink, as if tears had fallen before it dried. But who are these people, that one should cry for them?
One can trace one's fingers down the smooth paper and never understand why it hurts to do so. The origin of this pain is something extraworldly, something beyond, lost, forgotten--
(How can there be a thorn in your heart when there is no heart left to hurt? Nothing is precious, little. Nothing is lost save tears, should you cry.)
He dislikes seeing her hurt.
Seeing her hurt is like seeing the sun covered by dust or like waiting for rain that never comes. Seeing her hurt is like a boulder rolled upon the soul. Seeing her hurt is like hurting her, is like being her, is like killing her and leaving her.
He dislikes seeing her hurt.
One can breathe very easily in the night air, away from the staleness of Garden inside. One might be able to remember, if there is anything to remember, on a night like this.
One can read by the light of the lightning-bird. He is always nearby, like a warm blanket for the soul. It is very easy in the flickering light to make out the words written over and over again in the diary pages ago.
We must keep a journal so that we don't forget.
One can wonder--what is there to forget, or be remembered?
He is not evil. He is not malicious. He is loving and devoted and kind and caring and he has been with her since the day when she traded sight for not seeing. There is nothing he would not do for her--only things he cannot do. So he does what he can--all he can.
One finds it difficult at the ending of the day to think back to its beginning. There is something to be said for this looking forward, forward, forward--but at times it seems cruel to think only of night, night, night, and never the dawn.
One cannot remember the dawn on nights like this.
One cannot remember any dawn.
(Nothing is lost, little.)
He loves her. There is no doubt of this. He loves her in a way she does not understand.
She is human. He is other.
(There is no pain if there is nothing thought to mourn.)
All her tears will dry--some before they fall. It is only the diary that brings them out, now. Soon he will remove that, too.
One finds it harder than one should to remember ones own name. But it is easy to write the date, and form the letters once remembered. One writes it carefully on the end of the list, not knowing why one does so.
March 21, 4088 - Selphie died today.
One wonders why it seems correct to put that name with the others. One wonders why one's throat is choked with tears.
He dislikes seeing her tears, so he shrouds the sorrow in fog. Fog and self-forgetting are his blessings. Nothing is sad if there is no source of sorrow.
(My little... nothing is lost.)
One cannot remember everything, but nor can one truly forget. There are always edges to things, traces that exist at the edge of one's mind. It does not seem enough to remember without remembering. One always wishes to remember more.
One cannot remember everything, and quite by accident one might leave her diary on the Balamb plains where dewdrops will mar the ink.
One cannot remember everything, and quite often one forgets one's range of vision. A glass eye has no sight--only remembered sight, and precious little of that.
One might not remember the eye, or the vision. Then, one might find the half-vision normal.
What is a glass eye?