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.

“The Master.”

“Davros.”

None of it can be real.

–Steve Kilian

The Hall of IP

Soldier

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