He said his dreams were frequent and vivid, full of life. Not so anymore. They had an air of ritual and mysticism to them, he told me. These dreams, they permeated him and even I could see them. I wonder what possessed him to spread his dreams under cruel feet. I mourned with him when he laid the fragments to rest.
His aura is different now. I do not see it, never did, but that is what I call it. His aura. It used to brim with promise and potential. I could feel it like static across my forearms. I am afraid. I fear he has lost that something that made him undeniably him. He is like them now, and he hates that part of himself. Never told me that, of course, but that is because we both know he did not have to.
Who am I? I have been by his side longer than any other. I have watched over him for many lifetimes. I am older than even his soul. Yet I have not seen him without dreams before. It frightens me. It is as if he cannot hear my voice anymore. He tries, the old fool. In the muted roar of the rain, secrets carried on the winds, and in booming thunder he listens for my voice.
Perhaps a storm is what he needs. To wake up! So that he may sleep in dreams once more.