Everything is flawed. Existence is flawed. If you're searching for some overblown idea of perfection you'll be searching until the end of your days.
[Which perhaps suits Sanzo, for all he knows. But for himself-- the world is cracked open and broken apart, its rotten guts spilling out of it in an ugly hot gush and this is something he's always known right down to the core of himself, from that very first moment he'd opened his eyes onto the terror and bloodshed of the facility he'd been created within. Nothing will ever be okay, nothing will ever be good, but at the very least it can grasp him tight like chains that bind him into himself and stop all the fractured parts of him from flying apart.
He takes one measured step forward. Then two. And there's something palpable in the air around him, something that feels like a flickering light as the thing in his Spine pushes and whispers and encourages him on. He ignores it for now, but it's brewing in him. Something deep and dark and cold and unpleasant because all this talk of goals, well--
--for the longest longest time he's only had the one remaining to him. To have his final reckoning with Heine to draw out the Dog in him, to wake it up the way Mother wants it and have it tear him apart in the process so that he can go the way of Lily and Arthur and Lott and all the rest of them, finally. To die as he should have done, all those years ago. Perhaps his mind is no longer coming undone, his memories no longer falling away from him like sand between spread fingers, but it's hard, now, to imagine anything else for himself. Even now, with his world and everything in it gone to dust.
Things like him - monsters like him - they should never have existed to begin with.]
My current goal is the same goal I've always had. Nothing has changed. But until the focus of that goal has awoken and the final act can be brought to a close, I'll continue to exist in the way that best facilitates what I am. And really, it has nothing to do with you.
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[Which perhaps suits Sanzo, for all he knows. But for himself-- the world is cracked open and broken apart, its rotten guts spilling out of it in an ugly hot gush and this is something he's always known right down to the core of himself, from that very first moment he'd opened his eyes onto the terror and bloodshed of the facility he'd been created within. Nothing will ever be okay, nothing will ever be good, but at the very least it can grasp him tight like chains that bind him into himself and stop all the fractured parts of him from flying apart.
He takes one measured step forward. Then two. And there's something palpable in the air around him, something that feels like a flickering light as the thing in his Spine pushes and whispers and encourages him on. He ignores it for now, but it's brewing in him. Something deep and dark and cold and unpleasant because all this talk of goals, well--
--for the longest longest time he's only had the one remaining to him. To have his final reckoning with Heine to draw out the Dog in him, to wake it up the way Mother wants it and have it tear him apart in the process so that he can go the way of Lily and Arthur and Lott and all the rest of them, finally. To die as he should have done, all those years ago. Perhaps his mind is no longer coming undone, his memories no longer falling away from him like sand between spread fingers, but it's hard, now, to imagine anything else for himself. Even now, with his world and everything in it gone to dust.
Things like him - monsters like him - they should never have existed to begin with.]
My current goal is the same goal I've always had. Nothing has changed. But until the focus of that goal has awoken and the final act can be brought to a close, I'll continue to exist in the way that best facilitates what I am. And really, it has nothing to do with you.