though much is taken, much abides; and though we are not now the strength which in old days moved heaven and earth, that which we are, we are
I do not belong here, by the sea beneath Denocte’s lamplight. I do not belong beneath these glittering stars, where the wind whispers through a forest of masts and the sea sings her lullaby. I do not know when, or where, I was told a land like this will never love you, but the words return to me as the stranger turns. He regards me with eyes that are too-gold against the dark of his face; in the flickering lamplight and beneath the glittering stars, they seem leonine, predatory.
I do not belong here, spoken of by sailors and strangers. I do not belong beneath this gaze of Midas, and my lack of belonging fills me with an almost-rage. I have never been one to succumb to discomfort; but to smile at it, just as leonine, just as languid. A mirror as the silence suppresses me; as it urges me to turn and leave from their jovial conversation, the one I interrupted. But I do not; I do not, and I know my presence cannot be ignored.
The sailors leave, and we are alone.
Perhaps the lamplight, the starlight, the whispering docks—perhaps all these things combined suggest a veil of intimacy. The lively song of Denocte seems distant in the quiet of this dark alcove. The stranger waits to answer until the silence belongs to him.
An old trick, I think, that I once used and did not think to employ here, chasing a ghost that does not wish to be found. Alas, that seat has long grown cold. I’m sorry lad.
My lips twitch; an almost smile that could just as quickly become a sneer. There, then gone. Lad implies youthfulness; and as I measure him unabashedly with my eyes, I discern we cannot be far apart in age. And so I do smile into that silence, and wait for it to become mine, noncommittal—
I say, “Would you like to warm it, then?” just as he adds, “Was she special to you?”
Our voices contend; then break apart. I wait to see if he will answer first, but decide to oblige his curiosity.
“No,” I say the same old lie with the belief of a prayer. “But ghosts have a way of haunting you, even once you no longer long for them to be real.”
I know this, at least, is truth. Because I seek an individual who never existed in the capacity I wished they had; this realization, no matter how many times it dawns on me, fills me with bitterness. A younger version of myself would add, uncouthly and with caustic humor, that no one was special to me.
But I think of Adonai, then; I think of Adonai, and Dagda, and ever man I had ever put my name into their heart only to watch the way it bled. Only to feel, for a moment, immortal.
I walk past him, then; further down the dock, to gaze out at the end toward the sea. Beyond the ships; beyond the sailors. I do not glance over my shoulder when I add, “And how occupied are the seats around your heart, lad?” A flick of an ear; an over-the-shoulder glance, that ends in a flash of humor, visible only in the sea of my eyes.
I do not belong here, spoken of by sailors and strangers. I do not belong beneath this gaze of Midas, and my lack of belonging fills me with an almost-rage. I have never been one to succumb to discomfort; but to smile at it, just as leonine, just as languid. A mirror as the silence suppresses me; as it urges me to turn and leave from their jovial conversation, the one I interrupted. But I do not; I do not, and I know my presence cannot be ignored.
The sailors leave, and we are alone.
Perhaps the lamplight, the starlight, the whispering docks—perhaps all these things combined suggest a veil of intimacy. The lively song of Denocte seems distant in the quiet of this dark alcove. The stranger waits to answer until the silence belongs to him.
An old trick, I think, that I once used and did not think to employ here, chasing a ghost that does not wish to be found. Alas, that seat has long grown cold. I’m sorry lad.
My lips twitch; an almost smile that could just as quickly become a sneer. There, then gone. Lad implies youthfulness; and as I measure him unabashedly with my eyes, I discern we cannot be far apart in age. And so I do smile into that silence, and wait for it to become mine, noncommittal—
I say, “Would you like to warm it, then?” just as he adds, “Was she special to you?”
Our voices contend; then break apart. I wait to see if he will answer first, but decide to oblige his curiosity.
“No,” I say the same old lie with the belief of a prayer. “But ghosts have a way of haunting you, even once you no longer long for them to be real.”
I know this, at least, is truth. Because I seek an individual who never existed in the capacity I wished they had; this realization, no matter how many times it dawns on me, fills me with bitterness. A younger version of myself would add, uncouthly and with caustic humor, that no one was special to me.
But I think of Adonai, then; I think of Adonai, and Dagda, and ever man I had ever put my name into their heart only to watch the way it bled. Only to feel, for a moment, immortal.
I walk past him, then; further down the dock, to gaze out at the end toward the sea. Beyond the ships; beyond the sailors. I do not glance over my shoulder when I add, “And how occupied are the seats around your heart, lad?” A flick of an ear; an over-the-shoulder glance, that ends in a flash of humor, visible only in the sea of my eyes.
