I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail yes I would, if I could, I surely would, I'd rather be a hammer than a nail yes I would, if I only could, I surely would. Away, I'd rather sail away like a swan that's here and gone. A man gets tied up to the ground, he gives the world its saddest sound, its saddest sound
T
he most difficult transition I ever had to make revolved around the fulfillment of my purpose. I had been born to a fight a war—and that war, once won, stole from me my sense of direction. The war had been the path. I had sacrificed everything to fight in it; and most importantly, I sacrificed my ability to see beyond it. The winning, in and of itself, became both his greatest triumph and his most severe loss. No one ever thinks the war will end.
No one ever wonders if they might truly become a hero; and if, when they become that, there is no pinnacle to reach after.
Yes.
The winning caused shook my resolve in who I was, what I was meant to become. My happiness, woven intricately into that of my work, faded as the sun does at the end of each day. In a blaze of glory. With the victory, the end, I faced a life I never thought possible: the after.
And for a man who grew accustomed to living each day through with extraordinary purpose, this is a fate worse to me than death.
Perhaps, in that, we are both victims of Change; not in the essence of becoming something else, but in being unable to. Because it is not I who am the ghost, charging across the beach—no.
No.
I am only a soldier, chasing them.
The ghost of myself.
The ghost of the world that, to me, can be measured against. Can be quantified, and understood.
You are the only a ghost to her, he says cooly. That chilly demeanor does not last; he bares his teeth to me in a fashion I am not yet comfortable in.
I let him come; and in my mind, my pride welling to the point of overflow, I think of all the smart responses I might give.
She is a ghost to me. She died, long ago.
(Except she didn’t. Except she isn’t).
You cannot kill me.
(I am already a corpse of myself).
I do not believe in ghosts.
(I have been one walking for years).
Thank you, for letting me steal a piece of myself back.
(Just in this moment. Just in the charge across the sand).
Thank you, for reminding me I am a soldier again.
(And this is a war I already won).
The distance between us allows me to measure his approach; to, in my mind’s eye, picture his stride once the distance closes and the moment of impact nears.
Everything slows.
(This is how it ought to have been, when Sereia struck. Each second slowed to familiar predictability. They are so fast! I had almost forgotten how fast—and yet, I think, not as fast as I—)
At the last possible second, I lurch to the side with a downward glance of my horns. The gesture intends to act as a parry, allowing the forward momentum of his strike to carry him past me. Almost simultaneously, I pivot on my hind legs. I mean to strike with my horns or hooves; I intend to strike with weapons I know—
And instead my mouth cracks open wide, wide, wider—
And my teeth catch the light—
And instead I aim to bite the tender flesh just above the groin, where the hind leg meets the stomach.
I have never been a conversationalist in battle. I have never aimed to intimidate, to speak threats or promises or boasts. I am the epitome of my movements; of the beat, beat, beating of my heart. I am more alive now than I can remember feeling since Sereia; and perhaps I will never overcome this. Perhaps I learned too young and lost too late for me to ever recover.
To live, to strive, to find purpose I must be on the edge of death. I must barter everything at once, or else feel dissatisfied.
Because right now, in this moment before impact, in the breaths that exist between the movement of a clock's second hand--in the breaths that exist between the dropping sand of an hourglass--in these moments, in these small infinities, I am myself. And it is only in these small infinities that I am true.
(It is only here, wanting blood and hoping for it, that Boudika's name no longer matters. The war, which is won, feels as if it still might be lost).
We are all only ghosts.
inspo images: here here
