||[14 Jun 2004|08:53pm]
I've read lots of books. The palace library's too big to have gone through everything, but I've read a lot. Stories. Politics. Documentaries about anything that Vestputian didn't burn. I spent two months in there with nothing in me and I think that's why, because I had to fill those holes with something, and why not words? For lack of, say, meaning.
You listen to people -- humans, others that consider themselves not -- and you realize that most are raised believing in happy endings. Murder their children and string their parents up in flames and braided intestines, they're still fighting for it. Ultimately it's not happiness, it's the overcomplicated, sentimental ending which isn't as bad as it sounds. For the soldier it might be glory, for the mother it might be the day that their first grandchild is born, and for anyone at all it might be revenge. Glory, love, hate. And death. Yeah all right, that's cheerful. For no one a soulmate, but everyone wedded to final darkness.
Stuff like that, well... there wasn't much of that in the library. Which doesn't mean what is there is so bad, even when I remember who left it here. I just think that's probably why we lose. We, the immortals, right? Immortal. Yeah right. We're born as infants understanding infinity in space and time, only to be crippled by the limitations of being alive. In death is their victory... and for us? Well, nobody gets to live forever.
You probably know that better than anyone else. And you know, it's a lot easier to talk to you when you aren't here. Well, I hate talking, anyway.
Today I got into a fight and I got hurt so bad that I couldn't think, and I completely forgot why you weren't there. There were a few minutes where I really hated you. It's been a long time since the last time I felt like that. Most of the time, it's not like I forget. You know, Vestputian made me so that I always, always remember everything... I just don't think about it. This time was different.
Have you ever been stuck full of blades before? I don't know, I never asked you before. Hamstrings, chest, the joints of the shoulders, thighs and riddled in the gut. K, phallic metaphor, but not really. It really hurts for a few minutes and then it's just horrifying. You look at the world and it really is out to get you except this time it really can because you can't move, you can't breath, and you know you're going to be too slow, it's just got too many tricks and too many methods. You look at yourself and can't recognize this anymore and no one else will either. This body's betrayed you and everyone else and when you fall down you'll have ten bright steel silhouettes to mark the spot where you fell against the horizon, free-fallen limbs and torso. Circling points of light, the shape of a faceless body. Except you aren't a constellation, no, not you. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, yeah, you're really going to die.
I felt like that, except the world's last trick wasn't the one to the knee. Or the jointed blade in the gut that splits open and takes a swatch of tissue with it. Or anything like that. You were gone, and I couldn't remember why.
Anyway, I'm going to kill the bastard who hurt me today. He threw a little bomb thing that I've found out is called a 'grenade.' I just wanted you to know that I don't hate you.