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His existence is filled with riotous ambiguity. He is without death, eternally above the circle of life, and needs death to sustain himself. He is static in a world that exists because of change. To have the desire for sexual congress without any hope of procreation is particularly vexing. He simply cannot reconcile his own everlasting life. It can not be resolved in his ancient mind, despite his immense knowledge, the wisdom of centuries, and his brilliant multifaceted consciousness. If he's being honest his intuitive and insightful nature only makes his ambiguous existence worse. Grasping issues at hand, knowing their fruition but being unable to see purpose, reason, is unconscionable to him. But his own providence remains elusive. It is a burden he has carried for nigh on 1600 years. What does all of this mean? He thinks to himself often, and he knows it is normal even for a vampire. This is even more true for humans. And he finds their inner monologues endearing, for the most part, deriving amusement from the self-coaching, self-deprecation, self-love, and most other iterations of "self" that he overhears in their thoughts.

The unease that has he felt for all that time remained without discernment until his formal education in the early days of his life in the New World. Harvard was a vastly different place in the eighteenth century.And he laughs at a memory of white wigs and horse-shit, the baritone of his voice rising in the pre-dawn silence. Those early days of his education are perhaps the most poignant. His discovery that he was an intellectual, desirous of knowledge for its own sake, and that he had always been a scientist even if it was within the confines of his own mind was shocking and offensive to his warrior past. But he sloughed off those decayed sensibilities easily for the wondrous passion he felt for learning. New things are rare for those of his kind but Edward found that within the realm of Academia there is always something new to devour and digest. Over the last 323 years, he has discovered the power of physics, the grand sweep of climatology, the nuances of chemistry, the fragile beauty of biology. He's conquered countless languages, knows the genetic characteristics of the people who speak them, the anthropology of their culture, and the geography and geology of their home. The written word is his slave. Computers are his minions. And while he has little patience for the Liberal Arts, he has mastered those as well; history comes easily to those who have lived it. But for all his knowledge, he has no real answers. A scene from The Dark Knightplays vividly behind closed eyes and a maniacal Joker is saying to him, "You have nothing...nothing to do with all your strength..." By gods! he loves modern cinema.

Now he's sitting on a sheer cliff overlooking the pacific ocean. Occasionally, as the wind whips his auburn hair into a frenzy, he deeply breathes the cool air into his useless lungs. It's soothing and he's hypothesized that it's a holdover from his human life, one instinct that the venom didn't overcome. His left hand is smoothing over a jagged hunk of rock like sandpaper to wax, and it's this innocuous act that's made him contemplate his place in this world. As he exerts his will over the stone, he wonders what his lasting effect will be. Is it enough to simply be? What impact can I make as this? His frustration and discontent are mounting to match the ebullient hope in his stone heart. But these questions, with him from the beginning, remain without answers. After over a millennium, he wonders if he will ever find meaning. Or love...