At this time of year, a chill stalks the temple. As I rise to prepare myself for the morning meditations I shiver and give curse to that Force which created me. The weak dawn light creeps grudgingly through the tiny glass plate I hesitate to call a window. Pulling on my robes to keep the scarce heat close to my body I seat myself cross-legged on the floor and try to calm my mind. I am searching for the voice which is to guide me. All I find is silence. My body complains of cold and hunger and my mind begins to question its task. There must be something here...there must be. When my Master - a far greater servant to this Force than I will ever be, despite his protestations - listens, so he tells me, he sees and hears the very sinews of the Universe. Chaos resolves itself into rhythm and melody, counterpoint and cresendo. When he asks me of my meditations what can I do but repeat his descriptions? Lying is a Dark trait, we are taught, but to me it seems so easy, so natural. I can lie to my Master, that most perceptive of men, if I have to. I never lie for my own benefit, only his.
I should not be his apprentice, of this I am aware. I was placed in his charge by the man who trained him, a man convinced of my abilities. To fail in this task would break my Master's heart, and that I could not allow.
So I tell him what he requires to hear - that the Force is a guidance to me, that I have found free and fluid communication with my Maker. This, of course, is all a fiction. And a fiction that has led to others. When he finds me crying in the night, I tell him that I am crying for my mother. It is true that I miss her - I am only human, after all, with all the weakness that imperfect state brings - but my grief in that matter is a dull ache rather than the searing cut that brings those salty tears to me. I cry because I am adrift. I cannot find the solace of purpose. I spend my days learning to serve and obey a force that does not want me. I feel its strengths, I readily affirm, but its voice is lost to me.
I think sometimes that I must be truly wicked to have earned this fate. Perhaps when I agreed to abandon my mother to slavery I invoked some hostile influence. No other explanation seems tolerable to me. This mocking sprite must be the source of those Dark thoughts which so frequently invade my mind as to make me fear for my sanity. Of these attacks and temptations I tell my Master nothing. What good would it bring for him to know?
When I was younger I asked him where the Force was, why it never visited my meditations. He assured me that I was not yet settling my mind enough to hear it, and that it was indeed there. After a few months I saw that he expected me to have reached this communion, and I felt bound to answer him with a well-meant deception. I could hear it, I told him, and its Light was truly wonderous.
I do not doubt that the Force exists - I have seen its work too often to doubt - but my failure feels as sinful as any heresy. I, it seems, am not worthy of my Creator's attention, am an unwanted addition to its domain. It spurns me however I may try to please it, to beg an audience. Yet still I cling to my belief. There is no room in my meditations for doubt. But there is no room in the Light for me.
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