Confession to Rassilon
These warring incarnations never cease. No wonder then that after each resurrection I am less stable, less coherent. I endured years (centuries?) of schooling in the mental and trans-mental disciplines, and still their voices fragment the fragile vessel of my consciousness.
I somehow function, though. Confused, distracted, apparently mad at times, I stagger through the world, through disparate epochs, beset by real or imaginary nemeses, creatures surely born of paranoia. Such things cannot exist in a sane universe.
Time lies at the heart of this insanity. I cannot piece together my past in any way that makes sense. Those companions I take for a few months are vastly more capable of rationalizing the events that transpire around me. I wish that I were one of them, although I know this cannot be.
Knowing full-well that they come from within, I nonetheless feel compelled to externalize and personify my internal weaknesses. And so I am saddled with a changing roster of surely hallucinatory villains.
None of it can be real.