Our ranks are now down to five. Our quota? One hundred and sixty pages by Arsday, even as the texts grow more esoteric by the week. Transforming these sloppy ramblings into presentable research is a beginning to feel like a punishment rather than a task. Like the man who was sent to Tartaros for his hubris, made to climb a tree which grew faster than it could be climbed, my work is never done.
Yet it seems as though I continue to be the only acolyte who takes this task seriously. How many nights do the others visit the hot springs? How many hours do they squander twittering on about the priestesses they fancy, or the families they left to be here? What good does any of it do them? Such petty distractions afford one no benefit in the face of such a titanic workload. Do they not realize that their dalliances are not only a waste of their own time, but of mine as well?
I allow myself three pleasures. Bishop De Borel’s sermons, my evening devotion, and Sensei’s tea each Arsday. It is more than enough for me. How can they allow themselves such leisure whilst I toil arduously each day to make up for their slack? Do the other monasteries not teach discipline or respect? Clearly not. I pretend to ignore their disdainful gazes, but I see them nonetheless. What is it about me that draws their ire so? I deign not waste my time entertaining such thoughts. I need not concern myself with the idle thoughts of children.