they dredged icarus up from the sea today; wings bedraggled, tangled in the nets of those who tried to raise his body before. but he would not ascend; he learned his lesson.
You speak as if you have lived decades before me and are imparting some great wisdom. I sense her regret in the way she takes on a playful aura, as if to lessen the severity of our encounter. But does she not understand, we will never be anything other than severe? That is what we swore, when we vowed to never make promises: when we agreed lies were easier than truth.
I think, perhaps, we are a little bound by that. And by her tragedy. I cannot be many years older than her: but I think the difference is when we experienced our first heartbreak, when we realised that the world does not write out endings to our stories that we enjoy, or want, or can even imagine when it comes to those we love. When, I think, did she begin to recognise that she would raise her child alone? I smile, but there is nothing happy in the expression. “You are reading for something that isn’t there,” I correct, but it is light, almost cordial. “I simply mean to say that I know myself.”
It isn't insecurity, or a vice. It is a fact. I know what kind of man I am, and it is the kind of man who does not deserve Adonai, or anyone like him. Adonai wants to be a martyr. I have only ever wanted--
Well.
I have always wanted to be a hero, the victor. It is funny how different that ambition looks from different sides of history; from different sides of war. I never thought hero could possibly be synonymous with betrayer, but I stand here with blood on my hands and nothing but loneliness between my one heartbeat and the next.
“Elena,” I laugh, now, at her sudden demeanour. My eyes are shifting; they are the sea under fast clouds, light, then dark, then light again. “I do not want to be your daughter’s godfather. I don’t care if I meet her. That isn’t the deal we made.” There, I spoke of it. I gave it life again, so it can no longer hang between us like a dead thing underfoot, heavy, bizarre. I make a noncommittal sound, in the back of my throat.
Mentioning the eyes, I can only think of the women in Oresziah, and how those born with blue eyes were said to belong to the sea. No one married them. They rarely bore children.
It is strange, I think, the differences here. “Does the father know of her?” I ask, but I have a feeling I already know the answer.
I think, perhaps, we are a little bound by that. And by her tragedy. I cannot be many years older than her: but I think the difference is when we experienced our first heartbreak, when we realised that the world does not write out endings to our stories that we enjoy, or want, or can even imagine when it comes to those we love. When, I think, did she begin to recognise that she would raise her child alone? I smile, but there is nothing happy in the expression. “You are reading for something that isn’t there,” I correct, but it is light, almost cordial. “I simply mean to say that I know myself.”
It isn't insecurity, or a vice. It is a fact. I know what kind of man I am, and it is the kind of man who does not deserve Adonai, or anyone like him. Adonai wants to be a martyr. I have only ever wanted--
Well.
I have always wanted to be a hero, the victor. It is funny how different that ambition looks from different sides of history; from different sides of war. I never thought hero could possibly be synonymous with betrayer, but I stand here with blood on my hands and nothing but loneliness between my one heartbeat and the next.
“Elena,” I laugh, now, at her sudden demeanour. My eyes are shifting; they are the sea under fast clouds, light, then dark, then light again. “I do not want to be your daughter’s godfather. I don’t care if I meet her. That isn’t the deal we made.” There, I spoke of it. I gave it life again, so it can no longer hang between us like a dead thing underfoot, heavy, bizarre. I make a noncommittal sound, in the back of my throat.
Mentioning the eyes, I can only think of the women in Oresziah, and how those born with blue eyes were said to belong to the sea. No one married them. They rarely bore children.
It is strange, I think, the differences here. “Does the father know of her?” I ask, but I have a feeling I already know the answer.
