I remember speaking.
I remember shouting, laughing, singing.
I remember things I shouldn't.
My Lord has told me that I contain a sin and that I must remain silent so that it does not infect the world. It did before, he tells me, and that is why he had to create a new one.
My Lord tells me of that world. I was there, he tells me, and I believe that is where these memories come from. We were all born anew, this much I know. I alone bear the sin of that world.
My Lord keeps me close and I enjoy that. But I know that I shouldn't. He does so because I am wicked and untamed and feel things.
Jealousy, when he sought out those three among his creation and brought them near to him as well, in positions of honor.
Fury, when he spoke once of those who had once opposed him, in that sinful world.
Compassion, when I hear My Lord sigh and see his hands shake and his back slump.
Suspicion, when he tells me that I only project my own faulty nature onto him, reminding me that I am the only one who could bear regret.
Disgust, when I so much as know the terms for such things. He has not taught them to me, as they do not exist elsewhere.
My Lord maintains this world, and only he and I remember the one that came before. I cannot tell him, I dare not tell him, even in written word, that I remember him as well. I remember the sacred chain in his hands, distant flute music reverbrating around us, a stairway sprouting from a mountain peak, a sky dark as nothingness.
My Lord told me then that there would be no fighting then, no suffering.
I remember awakening by his side in his world, in this world.
Fear, when I know that I had opposed him.
Contentment, when My Lord is with me, when I think of the world that he created.
I remember that I am his only sin. And so I remain silent.
Grief, when I think of the old world.
Love, when I think of My Lord.