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Description
       In the space where my heart skipped the first in a long, long line of missing beats, I learned the truth.
       In the second skipped beat, I knew the truth, internalized it, made it a part of me as much as my suddenly delinquent heart had been until just a second ago.
       In the third skipped beat, the truth broke my sight. I can still remember the image shattering as though I’d been staring in a mirror and someone had kicked it in from the other side. All of which is true.
       In the fourth, the shattered pieces of the image ripped my mind into a thousand incoherent screaming bleeding slivers.
       In the fifth, my broken mind realized that it wasn’t dead.
       In the sixth, I regained my sight by opening my eyes. Such a simple act – and yet it seemed utterly impossible to me, until I did it.
       I don’t know when my mind will heal. I don’t know what impossible act – as much of a denial of the order of things as opening your eyes after you die was then – will be the simple act that opens my mind the way I opened my eyes. But I will find out.
       I’ve already done some things that seemed impossible to me before. Seen a raindrop drip off a leaf fifty yards away in the middle of a downpour. Read the thoughts of people I’ve never met. Worn the face and voice of someone else – many someone elses. Sensed inner self-doubts in the twitch of an eyelid and prophesied the fall of princes and presidents, enemies and empires from puffs of smoke and dances of fireflies. Stolen the blood of others and used it to extend my existence in this shattered, half-living, barely coherent state. Even broken the minds of others as mine was smashed, all those years ago. And yet, I remain scattered, unable to collect the pieces of myself.
       What is it that will break this curse on me? What impossibility can remain that I have not yet dared? There is only one answer, and it is inescapable, and it maddens me even further when I arrive, again, at this, the last roadblock on the path to wholeness, stymied by its solitary existence. It makes me want to die, and yet, that would be the worst possible thing to do.
       You see, to regain one’s sight after dying, all one must do is bring one’s eyes back to life again, by opening them.
       To recapture the wholeness I have lusted after with all my soul these millennia, I must bring myself back to life. To break the curse, I must break the curse. It is impossible – and that is the proof that it is the answer. And it makes me crazy.

Description
       In the space where my heart skipped the first in a long, long line of missing beats, I learned the truth.
       In the second skipped beat, I knew the truth, internalized it, made it a part of me as much as my suddenly delinquent heart had been until just a second ago.
       In the third skipped beat, the truth broke my sight. I can still remember the image shattering as though I’d been staring in a mirror and someone had kicked it in from the other side. All of which is true.
       In the fourth, the shattered pieces of the image ripped my mind into a thousand incoherent screaming bleeding slivers.
       In the fifth, my broken mind realized that it wasn’t dead.
       In the sixth, I regained my sight by opening my eyes. Such a simple act – and yet it seemed utterly impossible to me, until I did it.
       I don’t know when my mind will heal. I don’t know what impossible act – as much of a denial of the order of things as opening your eyes after you die was then – will be the simple act that opens my mind the way I opened my eyes. But I will find out.
       I’ve already done some things that seemed impossible to me before. Seen a raindrop drip off a leaf fifty yards away in the middle of a downpour. Read the thoughts of people I’ve never met. Worn the face and voice of someone else – many someone elses. Sensed inner self-doubts in the twitch of an eyelid and prophesied the fall of princes and presidents, enemies and empires from puffs of smoke and dances of fireflies. Stolen the blood of others and used it to extend my existence in this shattered, half-living, barely coherent state. Even broken the minds of others as mine was smashed, all those years ago. And yet, I remain scattered, unable to collect the pieces of myself.
       What is it that will break this curse on me? What impossibility can remain that I have not yet dared? There is only one answer, and it is inescapable, and it maddens me even further when I arrive, again, at this, the last roadblock on the path to wholeness, stymied by its solitary existence. It makes me want to die, and yet, that would be the worst possible thing to do.
       You see, to regain one’s sight after dying, all one must do is bring one’s eyes back to life again, by opening them.
       To recapture the wholeness I have lusted after with all my soul these millennia, I must bring myself back to life. To break the curse, I must break the curse. It is impossible – and that is the proof that it is the answer. And it makes me crazy.