[it's easy to keep himself from speaking, the ingrained aversion to making sound enough to keep him from ever coming close to trying.
This, though... it's similar enough to the whirling thoughts that he gets swallowed up in when he doesn't properly lock them down that it's easier to just let it keep going than stop them. He doesn't have time to check himself. As quickly as he's thinking it, he's sharing it, and it just keeps going...
He doesn't know what to do with himself now, because he doesn't have a reason. He was born for a reason, and it's all that has ever mattered. It's a truth that simply is. It's all for family, and a god, and the fate of this entire world that deserves to be unmade. What is he compared to all of that? What could he possibly be now?
And whenever he tries to think of an answer, he runs into walls built of ugly, unholy bricks. He can't help but let it leak in now and pollute what he's trying to explain--because it's always there--the sights and sounds and smells of it. The lessons that were ground into him with knuckles and whips and ornate rings with sharp edges that left marks. They were just trying to make him into something useful, because he isn't enough. He still isn't. And he was trying to fix that, trying to make it better.
But that doesn't matter anymore. He has to keep reminding himself.
It's over.
There's nothing left to do besides try not to make things worse.
Stay out of the way, and shut your mouth-- said in some voice that isn't his.]
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This, though... it's similar enough to the whirling thoughts that he gets swallowed up in when he doesn't properly lock them down that it's easier to just let it keep going than stop them. He doesn't have time to check himself. As quickly as he's thinking it, he's sharing it, and it just keeps going...
He doesn't know what to do with himself now, because he doesn't have a reason. He was born for a reason, and it's all that has ever mattered. It's a truth that simply is. It's all for family, and a god, and the fate of this entire world that deserves to be unmade. What is he compared to all of that? What could he possibly be now?
And whenever he tries to think of an answer, he runs into walls built of ugly, unholy bricks. He can't help but let it leak in now and pollute what he's trying to explain--because it's always there--the sights and sounds and smells of it. The lessons that were ground into him with knuckles and whips and ornate rings with sharp edges that left marks. They were just trying to make him into something useful, because he isn't enough. He still isn't. And he was trying to fix that, trying to make it better.
But that doesn't matter anymore. He has to keep reminding himself.
It's over.
There's nothing left to do besides try not to make things worse.
Stay out of the way, and shut your mouth-- said in some voice that isn't his.]