( A strange emotional sort of tension wells in Esikko's voice, a far cry from his usual light and therefore distant tone. There's no teasing lilt, just the weight of an exhaustion that carries across even in the way he sits, body leaning to one side, propped as best as he can, hands only fidgeting in small shifts in his own lap. It's difficult for him to maintain any sort of eye contact, like this, when he's speaking things he's never once bothered before, but he does keep stealing glances. )
Time— and identity, really— are not so linear. There's a dimension to it that can't be comprehended fully, and your mere presence in a place like this, a meeting place of various realms and various pathways, tied together by frayed strings retied and knotted every which way, tangling with one another— that alone should be proof of that.
( Proof, logic, reasoning— he thinks things like that might be the easiest way to struggle with the pain of your own existence. At the very least, it's thoughts like that that kept himself calm in the aftermath of his own doppelganger. Thoughts that plagued him, wondering if he had changed for the better, for the worse, were softened by the idea that even if things might be different back home, the him that here was different. )
I... It's difficult for me to explain my feelings on the matter, but would you hold the actions of the painting of another against their original? Whether past or future, those parts of ourselves can't change. That was a future glimpse of a certain you, sure.
But after all of my lifetimes, I've at last realized that if you'd like something to change, you should try an alternate method. Perhaps trying to avoid it is bringing you closer. ( His fingers curl into his own palms. ) Have you tried to face it head on?
no subject
( A strange emotional sort of tension wells in Esikko's voice, a far cry from his usual light and therefore distant tone. There's no teasing lilt, just the weight of an exhaustion that carries across even in the way he sits, body leaning to one side, propped as best as he can, hands only fidgeting in small shifts in his own lap. It's difficult for him to maintain any sort of eye contact, like this, when he's speaking things he's never once bothered before, but he does keep stealing glances. )
Time— and identity, really— are not so linear. There's a dimension to it that can't be comprehended fully, and your mere presence in a place like this, a meeting place of various realms and various pathways, tied together by frayed strings retied and knotted every which way, tangling with one another— that alone should be proof of that.
( Proof, logic, reasoning— he thinks things like that might be the easiest way to struggle with the pain of your own existence. At the very least, it's thoughts like that that kept himself calm in the aftermath of his own doppelganger. Thoughts that plagued him, wondering if he had changed for the better, for the worse, were softened by the idea that even if things might be different back home, the him that here was different. )
I... It's difficult for me to explain my feelings on the matter, but would you hold the actions of the painting of another against their original? Whether past or future, those parts of ourselves can't change. That was a future glimpse of a certain you, sure.
But after all of my lifetimes, I've at last realized that if you'd like something to change, you should try an alternate method. Perhaps trying to avoid it is bringing you closer. ( His fingers curl into his own palms. ) Have you tried to face it head on?