Letters Lost in Time - Karl Jacobs

Diary Entry #3

The inbetween.

It's a place I don't quite understand. I feel like I've been there before, but I can't put my finger on it. I mean, the books left there do say I've been there a few times now, but I can say for certain this is the first time I've remembered it so clearly. I don't know how or why I could possibly forget such an important detail. I should look into that, really, but for now... I need to think about the inbetween.

It's... odd. It's so surreal that it's almost... eerie. Its familiarity and even nostalgia can be explained through past visits, if the books tell the truth. However, it doesn't explain the distinct sense of loneliness, emptiness, and dare I say fear that I feel when I traverse its premises. The lights are just a bit too bright. The colors are just a little too muted. The hallways are just a tad too long. The buildings are just a hint too tall. The breeze is just a tiny bit too chilly. The imagery I'm faced with makes absolutely no sense. There's so much space, but nothing is there to fill it. It feels like too much and yet it has too little at the same time. It feels bizarre, straight out of one's imagination. It feels...

It feels almost... ď̷͈r̶̬̈́ē̶̮ȁ̴̹m̵̲̕like.

.

.

.

I... I can't keep losing my memory. My head always aches impossibly so after travels like these, and no amount of physical medication so far has remedied it. Countless images flash by and disappear, and I can almost feel them slip from my grasp and blur into nothingness. It seems like every time I go to the inbetween it happens, but I can't just stop going. I can't just turn back at the first sign of progress just because it scares me a little. I can't just stop in my tracks from something that isn't even immediate danger.

I know I've had my qualms about the place, but as much as I hate to admit it, it's a good omen. Change is preferable, whether for better or for worse. It means I'm finally getting somewhere, even if it may be just another bad ending. No matter how much I feel like a horror movie protagonist right now, I can't just let myself be dissuaded. I think I can understand them a little better now. Against my gut feelings, I'm going to examine that dimension further. I know it may be odd and even a little creepy, but... maybe there's more to that place that I'm just unaware of.

I've decided. I just have to keep looking deeper and deeper into the inbetween so I can find a way to ensure that I don't lose everyone that's so close to me. It's such a big place, and it's bound to hold some big new discoveries. There are corridors I've never been in, rooms I've never explored, paths I've never traversed and so much more. I have no doubt in my mind that some secrets are hidden there, and if the books are to be trusted then I'm sure some of them hold the key to my deteriorating memory. As long as I can find something, anything, it's another piece of information that I can make useful in my endeavors.

God, I can't believe I trust some words on paper more than myself at this point. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.

On another note, I need to move this library. It's far too close to the site of irreparable destruction, and I have a nagging feeling at the back of my mind that tells me it'll be part of that soon. Whether irrational or not, I can admit that I want to keep this place safe and tucked away from any possible damage. I can't have that kind of harm happen to this library, not when it holds shelves upon shelves of records of my travels. There's so much information these books of mine hold, so many little details I can get back to for future reference. It needs to be preserved.

The evidence of my mark on this world needs to be preserved.

Regardless, as I've said before, I will not falter. Whatever adversary comes my way, I will brave in order to accomplish my admittedly uncertain goals. I will find every way possible to ensure that no matter what, I can do my part to bring happiness to these lands... one preserved story at a time.

Til next time. Remember who you are.

−Karl Jacobs

-

He tucks the diary under his arm, alongside several other books from his secret room. It's a little easier to break through the wall now, whether that means he's getting stronger or the wood is getting weaker from all the times he's done this before. He sure hopes it's the former, or at least a mix of both. Either way, he patches up the secret entrance despite almost all its contents having been emptied already. He can't leave a single trace of his activities lest they raise even the slightest bit of suspicion. That's why even now, he hides under the cover of night and darkness so he can successfully slip away to the cozy house he shares with his fiancés as discreetly as possible.

As expected, no one greets him at the door. It's not that Quackity and Sapnap are particularly bad partners, if anything they're the sweetest and most accommodating people he's ever met by far. Rather, it's his fault for always coming home so late from things like these. It's the dead of the night, possibly long past 2 A.M. and he's sure they've retreated to their rooms hours ago to catch up on some sleep after waiting for him for far too long. He can't help it, no matter how apologetic he may be. He just can't risk them finding him stumbling and disoriented after a recent trip, or holding books they've never seen before despite the countless lazy afternoons they spent just reading everything his library holds.

The thought of those times makes him smile and reminisce, and for a moment, in his solitude, he lets himself pretend he's there in that moment once again. Before he hides away his secrets, he traces the pages that hold them with a tentative hand, eyes skimming the words that hold his entire self. If he focuses, he can almost feel it. He can almost feel Sapnap curled into his side with alert ears as Quackity gives a dramatic reading of the sentences his fingers are passing over. He continues the foolish tirade, acting like his imagination is actually reality and reviewing the contents of his precious diary from start to finish and the methodical scanning of his eyes feels like a monotonous yet welcome routine and then... he abruptly closes the book shut before shoving it into his hiding place hastily like he's been burned badly.

Staring at the recent entries for far too long can make the words morph into a sick, twisted, and f̶̯̾ą̵͚̈́m̸̫̙̍͝i̸̯͍̒̽l̷̹̕i̷̱͚͆̾a̵̭͈͛ŗ̸͓́ smiley face.