It seems your days have grown quite busy, oh confidant. Your pages are filled with this foolish girl’s writing, her seemingly endless stream of thoughts that grow with each passing day, her own ramblings about needless things. I wonder, if you had a mouth to speak what would you say? Would you give me feedback? Scold me? Or perhaps you would laugh while advising me of what to do. Again, I have no way of knowing your thoughts; you are but a simple journal, one of the simple belongings that this simple girl carries with her, in the pocket of her coat that’s nearest to her heart. Oh how I’ve grown fond of your tattered spine, your pages that stick together as if they were slathered with honey and left to dry on a hot summer’s day, and yes, even that worn cover of yours that smells like the dusted pages of a book in that old attic, of that old inn, attended by that Old man who raised this foolish girl.

But enough about that, oh confidant. For you see, I’ve once more left the safety of Ul’dah, once more finding myself on the road of travel yearning for adventure. Yet this time, I do not walk this beaten path alone; I’ve found myself a companion to keep me company as I walk down the many paths of Eorzea. Where will we go? I wonder. What will we see? I wonder even more. Like a bird that floats through the grand sky, stopping only for short breaks along its travels only to rest a while and then be off, so too do I want to travel, going where ever the wind blows stopping only to partake in the wondrous sights that this great big world has to offer. Do you think that boy with the red hair from all those seasons ago yearns for adventure? Who knows, perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn’t. However, in this foolish mind, among these foolish ideals and aspirations that fill it, I believe he does. Listen to me harp on and on about a boy I no longer know, about a different time…why do I do this? Am I indeed becoming sentimental? Perhaps, or perhaps I’m haunted by my many mistakes, the mistakes that have caused me to lose so many friends and lovers over the years. Indeed, I’m far from perfect, far from ideal, far from whatever it is I want to be, from whatever it is I strive to be; and yet, I am content, content in what I am now. How foolish.

As I sit near the window of this inn, my eyes looking up at the starlit sky, I have to remark at how insignificant it makes me feel. Just a single snowflake in a pile, a single blade of grass in a meadow, a simple honey bee in an entire hive. So I want to say, but the truth is all those things are unique, not every blade of grass is the same, not every snowflake is identical, and some bees are more foolish than others. So am I unique? I hope so, I hope I’m able to stand out even if it’s just a little bit. In ages past, the ancient sages would say that each star in the sky signified a single person in the world, if that’s the case, then which star is mine? I wonder. The ones that burn the brightest are sure to be those who stand out the most, the ones who have the biggest hearts, the great ones. I wonder…oh you small burning star, hidden away behind your brethren, glowing faintly in the shadows cast by their light, which one are you? Where are you? Are you looking down at me this moment from that grand ocean of lights above my head? I wonder, and I wonder, and I wonder some more.

You might be asking yourself, oh confidant, why am I suddenly worried about my uniqueness, but have no worry for I will tell you why. While traveling with my companion, that’s rude of me, with Cerigo, I began to think, to think about those stories that Old man used to tell this foolish girl. About the heroes of the ancient past, those old tales about those heroes and their accomplishments, their travels, their adventures. You might be saying to yourself that those heroes are in the past, and you are right, but we still remember them to this day; we talk about them to this day. Yet, when my time in this world comes to an end, when my flower wilts and my leaf falls, who will remember me? I wonder. What will I leave behind me? Who will be my legacy? Such foolish questions to ask, but for good reason. For you see, oh confidant, oh keeper of secrets, the anniversary of that day is drawing near.

Who’s anniversary are you possibly wondering?

My lover? No

My friend? Goodness no

I will tell you, for you see I tell you plenty of secrets, plenty of useless info to go along with those secrets. Forgive me oh confidant, for in a moment, I will fill you with many words possibly even taking up many pages.

The anniversary is of the passing of that Old man, the one who raised this foolish girl, who taught her the ways of the world in hopes of her carrying on his legacy, his last heir, his last confidant of the stories he told, of the life he lived.

I wonder.

Just like those stars that look down upon me high atop their perch in the heavens, are you among them? Looking down at this foolish girl as she writes away in this journal of hers. With my many mistakes, the many errors that have plagued the life I lead, with many possibly coming in the future, I have to ask…are you disappointed in me? Disappointed in what I’ve become? I hope not, for I try to live by your teaching’s Old man. I brush my teeth before bed, and again in the morning. I start my day with a cup of tea, a biscuit, and even a single apple, just as you did. You, who took this foolish girl into your home, and treated her as if she was your own daughter, spoiling her in that inn of yours with treats and clothes, even though you yourself wore a cloak with many holes in it, yet you prioritized me over yourself. What a kind heart you had.

Hey, Old man, sitting atop your perch in the heavens, do you remember? Remember the days I would tug at that gray mustache of yours so you would wake up? The days I would sit in your lap near that small fire place as you rocked me to sleep in that old creaky chair? I remember. Oh indeed, I remember, for you made me, a girl raised in the slums feel like the Sultana herself. What a kind man you were.

I wonder.

Do you recall that nickname you gave me? That precious nickname you gave to me that would put a smile on my face each time you would call me by it? Am I still your tadpole? Your small tadpole, that you found in that giant lake we call Eorzea. Your small tadpole that you said would blossom into a small frog, a frog that will jump so high as to clear mountains, a frog that will jump over the heavens. What a gentle soul you were.

Grandfather, I’m afraid your tadpole is still but a tadpole, lost in this grand lake we call Eorzea, but I am content, for you see grandfather, I’m still your tadpole.

Yours, and forever will be,

Cydni Eloise Aizah

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