It must be nice. To be young and at the start of everything, life stretching out in front of you. You never see how much you have left. The ending remains just beyond the horizon. I’m not necessarily old, but certainly older. There is a feeling that has begun to infect my mind. It’s the knowledge that you are much closer to the end than to the beginning.

Not to say that you need to worry about that. You’re young until suddenly you aren’t. It’s just one of the curses of existence, no one appreciates their youth until they’ve grown past it. Like a shed skin, you can try to capture that youthful feeling again, but no matter how much you squeeze and contort yourself, it will never naturally happen again.

Even if you know all this to be true, and you wake up every morning checking to be sure that you are still young, it won’t be until much later when it’s undeniable that this stage of life has passed. In that sense, worry about it all you want, just know that nothing you try to do to prolong this period will have any effect. Just smile and enjoy it. You see how little I smile now.

I remember youth as a porcelain vase, stained cerulean, filled to the brim with water. Life was simple and full. When I picture that vase now, the water level has sunk into the depths of the vase. Cracks have formed, degrading into leaks. It’s difficult to put in words why I continue to persevere like this. Luckily, I’ve had lots of time to come up with a compelling reason.

These days, the leaks are becoming untenable. When I block one hole, it isn’t long before a new leak has sprung. It’s become clear that the crumbling vase will never be made whole again. It’s all I can do to stop it from turning to dust.

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I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. It certainly doesn’t make it easier to keep panic and worry at bay. Take it from me, I’ve never stopped worrying a day in my life. I’m not sure if I can trust you, but at least you can certainly trust me. Anyways, my issues are not with you, and as I’ve said, I can hardly handle another fight right now.

He’s probably forgotten about me. That’s what hurts the most. To struggle here while he has simply moved on to his new ventures. His time in control has been underwhelming, and reckless. I might have been able to let things go if he wanted to take us on some half-baked spiritual journey where he would undoubtedly force some contrite breakthrough. It made sense, tear down the old regime’s idols and propaganda, move quickly to put up your own.

Then he decided to pull Clara into this. I knew he would. Maybe that was why I held on for so long. I owe nothing to him. But I do owe her. At this point, I was growing dubious of my ability to wrestle control back from him. Just as I had adapted to my role as the one in charge, he had adapted to this state of inexistence. We were both struggling in our new environments, but mine felt less like an adjustment, and more like bells tolling.

I’m sure you noticed the change in me. I’m no longer saving up my strength for a great counteroffensive. Instead, I’ve prolonged myself for a chance to intervene. Perhaps there is a way to do both, but I’m beginning to doubt it. The only comfort I have, is that I will get my opportunity.

Just as I have begun to fade in power, I can feel a similar drain occurring in him. Our two domains are growing closer, the border between us growing thinner by the day, by the hour. And then all at once, I see it. It’s the best chance I’ve had, and it’s also the last. I see the hand, grasped around the brass knocker of her door. A moment prolonged in our mind.

I don't think it's likely we will ever see each other again. I wish you the best. Goodbye.