Planescape Torment tribute:

I have worn ten thousand faces, and not one bore my name. Each death a fading echo, each birth a borrowed shame.

The planes remember. I do not. They whisper of sins I no longer recognize but cannot escape.

Immortality is no gift. It is a wound that will not close.

II. You think forgetting is peace? No— it is noise without shape. A drowning in lives not lived but inhabited.

I wake in blood, in dust, in cells that once burned with purpose. But the purpose is gone, and the guilt remains— detached, like a shadow I cannot cast off.

My past walks beside me, in the mouths of those I wronged. Some call me friend. Some, monster. They are both right.

III. There were moments— brief, trembling— when I thought I saw him. The true self. The one I lost before the first unmaking.

He was not kind. But he was certain. And I, in all my paths, have longed for that certainty more than redemption.

But I cannot be him again. And perhaps I never should.

IV. To die, truly die— it is not fear that holds me from it, but wonder.

Will I be judged? Will I be freed? Or will I become only what I have already been: a memory without a mind, a wound without a name?

Yet still, the longing burns— to end. Not in despair, but in completion. To lie down and not rise as another echo.

V. This is the truth, scraped raw from eternity: You do not find peace. You make it. With the pieces you have left. With the names you cannot recall and the ones you cannot forget.

What can change the nature of a man? Not time. Not death. Not even love.

But perhaps, just perhaps— forgiveness.

And if not from others, then from the self you are still becoming.