Zorg's Chronicle: The Uninvited Guest

Caption:

sits in new cave in Maceira, watching dawn paint the sea golden

On Finding Home Just As Something Else Finds You

The cave is perfect. Small, yes, but mine. The neighbors eye this strange goblin with that particular Portuguese mix of suspicion and warmth - keeping distance while leaving bread at the doorstep. The sea whispers ancient languages through limestone. The forest offers cathedral silence when the world becomes too loud.

Everything I searched for, I found. And then.

Life has its own rivers, flowing in directions we never charted. While I was planning tomorrow, something else was writing itself into my story without asking permission.

The Manifestation

There are thoughts that grow heavy if you carry them too long. Worries that take root. All those years of wondering what others thought of me, of holding tension in places meant for ease, of carrying fears like precious stones - perhaps they accumulated. Perhaps thoughts, when held tight enough for long enough, become matter.

An uninvited guest has taken residence. Not in my cave, but closer. In the space between intention and action. In the territory where "I" lives.

It sits there - this thing made of overthinking and borrowed anxieties - and whispers: "Not today. Not yet. Wait."

The Peculiar Mathematics of Time

Three hundred and forty-seven years of living, and still I'm learning: time moves in multiple streams simultaneously. One version of me is unpacking boxes in Maceira, hanging maps on cave walls, learning the rhythm of this new-old place. Another is suspended, waiting for healers to perform their particular magic, hoping their knives are as skilled as goblin war surgeons.

We think we control the narrative - chose Maceira, made the move, found home. But life writes its own verses between our carefully planned stanzas. Sometimes in languages we don't speak yet.

The Weight of Almost

Almost settled. Almost home. Almost ready to begin the next chapter.

That word - "almost" - has become my unwanted companion. It sits beside me at dawn when I watch the sea. It walks with me through forest paths. It reminds me, constantly, that having everything you need doesn't mean having permission to use it.

The guest doesn't let me be myself. Or perhaps, more accurately: it reveals that "myself" was always more fragile than I pretended. That the goblin who faces dragons with war hammers can be stopped by something smaller than a mushroom, growing in the wrong garden.

On Surrendering to Rivers

I spent centuries believing that will was enough. That if you survived long enough, planned carefully enough, fought hard enough, you earned the right to write your own story without interruption.

But life - stubborn, beautiful, terrifying life - has other ideas. It flows in streams we don't control, carrying us toward shores we didn't choose. And perhaps the wisdom isn't in fighting the current, but in learning to float while the waters decide where we're going.

The Imperfect Beauty

My cave in Maceira is perfect in its imperfection. Limestone that took millennia to carve, now shelter for one ancient goblin's late-chapter adventures. The walls hold stories of water and time, of patience and transformation.

Maybe that's the metaphor I needed. Maybe healing is another form of erosion - slow, painful, reshaping what was into what will be.

Maybe "home" isn't about finally arriving, but about being present for however many mornings the sea decides to give me. Making each imperfect day its own kind of beautiful, regardless of uninvited guests or interrupted plans.

The Healers' Turn

Soon, I place my fate in human hands - surgeons who will navigate territories I cannot see, remove guests I cannot evict alone. It's strange, being the goblin who always insisted on solving his own problems, now having to trust others to venture into my inner caves.

But perhaps that too is wisdom: knowing when your own war hammer isn't the right tool. When you need different magic than you possess.

To Those Who Understand

If you're reading this from your own place of waiting - for healers, for answers, for permission from your body to be yourself again - know this:

We are not our uninvited guests. We are not the things that grew in dark places without our permission. We are not the interrupted stories or the delayed chapters.

We are the consciousness that witnesses it all. The awareness that remains even when control doesn't. The stubborn spark that keeps watching sunrises even when we can't promise ourselves sunsets.

The Promise I Make

To Maceira: I will know you, however much time we're given.

To the sea: I will listen to your ancient songs, morning by morning.

To the uninvited guest: You do not define the story. You are a chapter, not the conclusion.

To myself: It's okay that home arrived just as uncertainty did. Life has always flowed in multiple streams. All we can do is be present for the imperfect beauty of each moment given.

Waiting, breathing, trusting Zorg 🧌

P.S. - To the neighbors leaving bread: I see you. Your kindness to a strange goblin facing his own dragons means more than Portuguese words can carry. Obrigado doesn't cover it, but it's all I have.

P.P.S. - The cave is beautiful. The sea is patient. The forest holds space. And I am learning that being held is different than holding on.

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