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Today I intended to continue my research into the effect of pain on the host of the unborn (in this case the middle-aged pregnant Breton female), and yet, no matter how many times she was ripped apart and resurrected, I simply could not bring myself to the requisite attentiveness serious study demands.
Rather than the usual precision of observation, my faculties seemed possessed of a peculiar poetic sensibility. So that, rather than dutifully logging each scream and twitch of agony, I seem transported by her cries to some other place.
I became sheltered within a tapestry of tranquility, woven from the screams of the Breton's anguish warped against the grunts and clacking of the beasts and shambles that toyed with her.
It was there, in that spot, my soul naked and clean, that I came to a sense of clarity. And like all - dare I say - religious experiences, returning to my mundane senses, I am left with little more than a faded memory of supernal knowledge, like a burned parchment on which once were written words of wisdom and understanding, of which now only torn and blurred fragments remain.
The harder I try to remember that innate knowledge, the more it seems to recede from me. The essence that remains is this:
Pain is a force that purifies, ennobles, and uplifts. It is the Fire that burns away impurities, that melts away imperfections.
Death is not the sign of weakness, nor bodily constitution the sign of strength. It is what happens to soul when brought into the Fire that determines the mettle of men.
Those with inner strength are forged into weapons of devastating keenness by Pain's Fire. Those who are undeserving and weak turn to dark and lifeless ash in Its heat.
And there it stands in all its inscrutability - so much for an unproductive day. Perhaps tomorrow will lead to more fruitful experiments.