Today, I overheard a pretty, young girl humming to herself. At first, I was impressed by her bravery for singing in public, but then I realized that she was in a world of her own making and was singing for no one but herself. She reminded me of someone I knew for a time and as I lost myself in her music the sweet memories of that special time rushed over me. As I write these words now the memories again seek to overwhelm me. I think that, today, I shall not allow that.
Although my life and that of Sorren's could not be more different, when I read something like this I sense a kindred spirit, as if I am a reincarnation of his fervent dust. But even beyond the stirrings of my own heart, I see in this short narrative an observation that needs no heart to claim as truth: that to lose oneself is a freedom. A freedom from the world, any world, any time which makes claim to our attentions and passions. But freedom is also a choice, and when Sorren decides to defer his memory, he is asserting a freedom here as well. I know that I presume much, but I did not ask for this book. This is the earliest instance where, in my mind, I heard a small voice claiming, I am Sorren.