A Collection of Lone Dancer Writings.

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One could say I was mad. No. I was definitely mad. Not the anger mad. No. I was afflicted with madness. My lucidity is merely an illusion. My entire life has been rendered to a mere illusion. A nigh empty speck of a once whole being. But what happens when you expand a person’s being, to be near infinite magnitudes better, for a fleeting moment, and then be reduced back to normality in the next.

It was a moment beyond my own descriptions for the most part. I didn’t have the language to properly express it. My mind would never get the point where I could develop a language with the proper meanings. I try, but words end up failing me once more. I’m so incredibly broken; yet not.

My claws grip at the worn parchment I write my experiences on. Or, attempt to write. I was a drop, turned into an ocean, then turned back to a drop with whispering impressions of being an ocean. I was a single drop, with an ocean sized gap created from yet one single moment that transcended my previous experience.

I want nothing more to experience being an ocean again. To understand once more sensations and memories left behind by a single moment. Ethereal memories, of which I lost their true meaning so long ago.

Other dragons simply didn’t understand, that for a single moment, one that lasted far too long and far too short, I was beyond any dragon. They didn’t understand. Not when I tried to explain the truth to them. They feared it, and thus, feared me. They locked me up. It didn’t matter. I would document everything. I would find transcendence again.

It is my only goal now. Everything could be left behind. They didn’t understand. Perhaps, not even I. For I too feared the truth I learned, albeit in a much more way of reverence. Calling it a truth would do it injustice. It’s a concept, a law; beyond me. Beyond them.

I am mad. I was inflicted with the maddening fleeting whispers of being made more. And then reduced back to normality, only wispy impressions left over. I was mad. That was true. But my madness is beautiful. To me. It signifies that I was beyond myself.

Perhaps, one day, I will assist others to beyond themselves. It’s a not a beautiful or ugly thing. Those words can’t describe it. I can’t describe it. It rots away at me, the weakness of our language. What wondrous and terrible things could we wrought if language could express these concepts, these sensations in adequacy.

I’m utterly mad. But that’s okay. I have a feeling I won’t be for much longer.

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