Yucks! This should have turned out so much better than it is. I mean, the idea's there. So when you read this, perhaps you should think about what this could have been, rather than how bad it is, as it is.

Oh, just as the title suggests. This story is just not deep enough, sigh.

Not Deep Enough

Why have I become the way I am? The reasons are like soaring arrows, sharp and true—and yet they never hit their marks. They never pierce my heart deep enough to leave me bleeding.

Is it pain? Pain for something that could have been different, and yet happened as it did? Yes, it hurts, this endless chase, a chase where I am the hunted—a shadow raging behind me, never catching up, but never relenting. Is it this chase that keeps me running, for fear? Is it this that keeps my life in constant change, in hope to lose my pursuer in the layers of time?

Pain, pain—no. It does not hold enough power. Pain would not drive me to this extent of change.

Is it anger? All my life, there has been this inexplicable fury in my heart, a deep thorn that marrs my heartbeat. Is it anger that drives me? But anger, anger is destructive. Why would any anger give me the cause that I now hold?

It is not anger.

Then regret? Regret would never turn me into a monster, would it? Regret comes from belief that what I have done is irreversible. But I know it isn't—I am so close to holding the power of time, and I soon I will erase all the wrongs of my past—

Regret, anger, pain—they are not deep enough, not this deep. This thing that painfully throbs in my soul is more than just these. It alone has transformed me completely. It alone is tearing my humanity away, cell by cell. It alone holds dominion over my soul.

My soul is filling up with coldness, slowly pulling further and further from my true heart. And yet my soul and my heart are inseparable; they will always be one within me.

Why? Why, when I have forsaken my home, my world and my old life, do I hold onto this silly little thing, my heart?

I suddenly understand.

It is none of those things, and yet it is all of them. It is for pain, for anger, for regret, all born from my heart—born from a mistake I should never have made. A mistake that pains me, only because my heart beats, only because I have the capability to feel hurt and anger, to understand and regret.

It is for all these things that I seek mastery of time

It is for all these things that I am certain of the righteousness of my cruelty.

For I still hold to belief, though all else has been eaten away by cold darkness. I still believe that somehow, in this darkness, I will find the light that I yearn.

For this is what my heart tells me is right.

I do all this, for love.