At night, I like to come down to the water and remember.
I listen to the sea churning in the dark, and I marvel at how it sounded exactly the same on the other side of the world, in that place we brought war to– or, no, not war. Freedom, it was freedom.
It was justice. And no matter how tired I am of it all, I will always fight for it. I will always fight for her, until the end of days.
I listen to the crash of the waves and I think of how small my daughters were when we left Novus. I try to recall being that small myself but all I remember anymore is a blue-grey smear of sky and the smell of smoke. I've lived long enough and come so far from my birthplace that my childhood memories are torn and crumbled. They say you die once with your body, and again when the last person who remembers you forgets. I feel suddenly like a murderer and then I remember-- oh wait-- I am.
the thrust of my halberd through flesh. the crush of bones. the sound of someone drowning on their own blood. How, how, how could I forget?
Or, really, how couldn't I?
At some point you realize: all men bleed the same, even the evil ones. In war all men die the same, too, surrounded by filth and ash. Sometimes they go out crying, sometimes screaming, sometimes mouths drawn into a dumbfounded “O” of surprise.
I almost envy the ones who never saw it coming. I know my death will not be a surprise like that. It trails behind me already– I see it there at the corner of my vision, lingering in the shade between the trees. Patient, so very patient. He’s been waiting for me the moment I was born.
Death bites into an apple, leans back into the loamy earth. I think he might be listening to the sea, too. I think he might be remembering. The wind blows gently against our backs.
Death and me, we’re as much at peace as we’ll ever be.
I know I should be grateful.
The clouds part and moonlight makes her entrance, dancing silver on the water. There’s someone else here, too, someone who is not death and not the moon. I hear them step forward softly in the sand behind me. I remember when I was young I always wanted to be alone. Since then I’ve grown to appreciate any escape from my thoughts.
“Nice night.” I call out quietly, without taking my eyes off the sea. Holding so tightly to my memories, and feeling them slip slowly through my grasp anyway.
E I K
the world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.
I listen to the sea churning in the dark, and I marvel at how it sounded exactly the same on the other side of the world, in that place we brought war to– or, no, not war. Freedom, it was freedom.
It was justice. And no matter how tired I am of it all, I will always fight for it. I will always fight for her, until the end of days.
I listen to the crash of the waves and I think of how small my daughters were when we left Novus. I try to recall being that small myself but all I remember anymore is a blue-grey smear of sky and the smell of smoke. I've lived long enough and come so far from my birthplace that my childhood memories are torn and crumbled. They say you die once with your body, and again when the last person who remembers you forgets. I feel suddenly like a murderer and then I remember-- oh wait-- I am.
the thrust of my halberd through flesh. the crush of bones. the sound of someone drowning on their own blood. How, how, how could I forget?
Or, really, how couldn't I?
At some point you realize: all men bleed the same, even the evil ones. In war all men die the same, too, surrounded by filth and ash. Sometimes they go out crying, sometimes screaming, sometimes mouths drawn into a dumbfounded “O” of surprise.
I almost envy the ones who never saw it coming. I know my death will not be a surprise like that. It trails behind me already– I see it there at the corner of my vision, lingering in the shade between the trees. Patient, so very patient. He’s been waiting for me the moment I was born.
Death bites into an apple, leans back into the loamy earth. I think he might be listening to the sea, too. I think he might be remembering. The wind blows gently against our backs.
Death and me, we’re as much at peace as we’ll ever be.
I know I should be grateful.
The clouds part and moonlight makes her entrance, dancing silver on the water. There’s someone else here, too, someone who is not death and not the moon. I hear them step forward softly in the sand behind me. I remember when I was young I always wanted to be alone. Since then I’ve grown to appreciate any escape from my thoughts.
“Nice night.” I call out quietly, without taking my eyes off the sea. Holding so tightly to my memories, and feeling them slip slowly through my grasp anyway.
the world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.
open to any!
Time makes fools of us all
