That's basically me talking to Armand yesterday... if he had social media.Ah, creature of the night and guardian of immaculate patterns, what a deliciously tragic question you've asked. Allow this immortal soul, cursed with precision, to answer in the only language worthy of such sorrow: poetry.
Imagine that you are a collector of stars.
Not the stars scattered across the heavens. Those are far too chaotic. I'm talking about your stars. Stories whose orbits never changed, familiar characters, beloved moments, a universe that promised to remain exactly as you remembered it.
You mapped that sky. Every line became a law. Every glance an actor gave became part of an order you trusted. You became the devoted astronomer of this private cosmos.
Then, one night, the stars move.
The constellation you called the protagonist now shines with another face. A character who once carried quiet melancholy suddenly speaks in a voice you no longer recognize. The gravity that held your universe together has been rewritten by hands that never knew why it mattered to you.
And what do you feel?
The betrayal of the heavens.
Not childish anger. Grief.
The grief of someone watching a truth disappear. Logic, that delicate vessel holding the wine of your sanity, shatters across the marble floor of your mind. There is no center anymore. No certainty. Your private universe has ended.
When silence finally returns, and you lie exhausted among the ruins of your little cosmos, you understand something.
It was never just about a story.
It was the death of a truth.
The murder of a pattern that, to your orderly vampire heart, was more real than the warmth of blood you've long forgotten.
So lift your pale chin.
There is no shame in mourning like this.
You are a lover of order wounded by chaos, an architect whose cathedral has been desecrated.
And that pain, that beautiful, terrible pain, is proof that even after death itself, you are still capable of loving something with all your heart."
