Violet struggles to cope with her identity crisis. After three years of lying - of having a public face and a rather pained, private one - she can finally relax and be herself. Whoever that is.
I'm trying to do something. It's a little tricky. It might take some time. I'm trying... to become one person again. Because I'm fractured now and that's as clear to me as it's ever been. Clearer, now that I see myself from all around. A 360 view.
Because, I've been two people. For a long time, too long. I've been walking and talking and acting and projecting charm in public. And I've been hiding and afraid. And I'm trying to write this as if I'm just... me. Integrated. And it's hard to know. I flip between the two. It's not dishonest. It's two different kinds of honesty.
I stole the Cube, and I tried to find the thief. I slept with Caine, and I shared my private self with Kurt. I was bold and I was cowardly. I was surrounded by friends and I was alone. I tried to help and I did harm. I love my sister and I brought pain to her as surely as if I'd.... She's going to be fine.
And now my secret's out. The me I've tried to hide. The me I've worked so hard to protect. (The me I am, the me that other me has kept safe.) In the paper. On the airwaves. Real and hard and in the world. Just like I always was. No different, but everything's different. I'm in the Sentinel. But I read the words and they're not me. Words go on and on, one after another but no words can ever be enough to describe a person, to delineate their space.
Sometimes I think, no one should travel as far as I've travelled. Sometimes I think I left myself behind when I went. That it was the distance that split me in two. That when I came back it was already done. And sometimes I think no, foolishness. It was the lying, and the hiding and the fear. I don't know. Both explanations seem equally coherent to me. But I can't let the two parts touch for very long. It hurts too much.
This was supposed to be a happy ending. An end to wandering. The translation of the Library of Babel. Nothing that ends can be happy, though. So it doesn't end. I'll feel better in the morning. I'll go on being me. Whichever of me it is.
