WE MUST ALWAYS BE WILLING TO BE MORE SAVAGE TO THE ANGELS. RIP UP THEIR FLESH AND REVEAL THEM TO BE NOTHING BUT THE DREAMY, VOIDLESS HAZE OF LAVENDER AND GODHOOD WITH YOUR VIRTUE SHREDDING TEETH. DO NOT WEEP WHEN THEIR WINGS THRASH. DO NOT BE SURPRISED WHEN THERE ARE NOTHING BUT GHOSTS IN THEIR HEART.
I discover, today, something I hate more than the sea.
The swamp is deception. My breath fogs the air in the dusky autumn, and I wonder what creatures lurk hidden and unseen in both the murky water and overhanging Cyprus. The water that pools now is stagnant, and I have heard it is because it is the dry season. It is wetter in the winter and the spring, they tell me, and I wonder what lurks then. Crocodiles? Great fanged beasts? I find this land both revolting and intriguing for all the monstrosities it must hold; and as I wander, I discover the addictive nature of my limitless freedom. The island of my boyhood could be travelled in three days time. There were only three villages, and I had once run from one side of the island to the other, only resting twice. Novus is much larger and now I trek to see the mountains, which are in the North, and that is all I know.
So through the swamp I wander, and I curl my lip at the distasteful odours of stagnant water and rich, rich earth. It is almost enough to make me miss the sterility of the sea; the unforgiving bleakness of the cliffs. There is too much green and brown, even in the cusp of autumn, and it is all uneasy. There must be eyes in the trees. I avoid the pooling water at all costs and, in my avoidance, I find myself lost.
I suppose, then, I should consider myself lucky when I discover the slender buckskin on a sturdier plot of land beside a gravestone.
That only goes so far, however; to consider oneself lucky after coming upon the grieving. I do not know the etiquette for such a scenario, and I found myself wordless for longer than is polite. Finally: “I apologise to intrude on a private matter. I wouldn’t, if it weren’t for the fact...” I trail off, before regaining courage. I offer a sheepish, embarrassed smile. “I’m lost. I was on my way to the mountains. Verenor?” I do not know what other explanation to give, other than the simple and whimsical fact I have never seen mountains.
I can imagine, then, exactly what my father would say:
There’s no fucking time for that shit. Get it together. You’re a man. You don’t get to chase dreams
I amend: “Or… really, anywhere. Perhaps Terrastella. I haven’t seen it yet, and I'm looking for employment.”
And what are you good for my father would ask.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
And the only searching I can think of is to return to the sea and wait
wait.
wait.
I feel rude, and I say, "I'm sorry for your loss."
IF THEY OFFER YOU THEIR LIPS, TAKE THEM AND THEN CRUSH THEM WITH YOURS. DO NOT BE AFRAID OF DESTROYING THEM. WHEN THEY COME DOWN FROM THE UNIVERSE WITH THIRD DEGREE BURNS, LET THEM EMBRACE YOU. WHEN THEIR VOICE IS MEEK, LAUGH AND TELL THEM THAT THE MEEK ARE GOING TO GET WHAT'S COMING TO THEM. HOW WILLING YOU MUST BE TO KILL ANGELS. AND HOW WILLING THEY MUST BE TO LET YOU DO IT.
