15 Oix 4385: Words, Words, Words
So.
I am not quite sure, now that I have the Scroll of Infinite Worlds to Read open, exactly why I wanted to write in it.
I am aware that Delight has long thought of this enchantment as a means of recording her life and communicating with an assortment of new and old friends, many of whom are not actually from this dimension. It is, as she noted two months ago, "not just letters to Boomsy".
But I am an old-fashioned prime, I suppose, and I have been thinking all this time of the scroll as a means of posting missives for Delight.
I have no need to post missives to Delight at this moment. She was in this very room not a third of an hour gone by, and shall return in an hour or two at most, I have no doubt. My Delight-in-Surprise is full of surprises! This unexpected visit is a most welcome one, do not mistake me! It has been nigh on two years since last we met in the flesh, and there is nothing quite so cheering as the physical presence of a beloved relation. So much is lost in mere writing, uncaptured by the black stroke of pen. The smile on her face, her boundless and bounding enthusiasm when caught by an idea, her eager impatience to suit deeds to words -- ah, how I've missed you, Dee, and not even known I missed you.
And yet ...
And yet.
Not every surprise has been as welcome as this one, and the sudden inexplicable animosity between my dear coz and my close friend is a guest I could do well without.
Forgive me, Delight, my foolish incomprehension. You expended a full third of an hour explaining the topic, and I have no excuse for pleading ignorance, save willfulness. Indeed, it is a willfull ignorance that refused to read the words when you tried to show them to me, that coiled tentacles before my earholes when you tried to read them aloud.
I do not want to know these words, these words of such great and awful power that they could sunder two primes I care for so deeply.
Whatever Song wrote within this scroll is buried and dead to me. Perhaps some Mentador monster controlled her into making false statements, or some bonstable scribbled them down in her name, or maybe it was merely a momentary lapse of judgement. Whatever it was, I know it was not my Song-for-Always that you read on this page, Delight. Not my Song-for-Always, who ransomed my drums when I pawned them for rent two years ago. Not my Song-for-Always, who stood her ground when four armed primes sought to teach an overly-locquacious Khtsoyis that it was not his place to use the speech of his betters. Not my Song-for-Always, who has rejected four offers to engage Don't Go in It's a Tarp! because they were contingent on her employing a drummer of some more acceptable species.
These actions shout louder than any words ever could. It is their bedlam noise, more even than the tentacles against my ears, that drowns out your efforts to explain, my dearest Delight.
It seems I had a message to write to you after all.
I feel I ought to apologize for writing this down instead of saying it. Sometimes speech is not my ally, when I must struggle for breath at the same time as I struggle for words. Perhaps it's easier to articulate my thoughts with ink on clean parchment.
I am sorry, dear coz.
I am not quite sure, now that I have the Scroll of Infinite Worlds to Read open, exactly why I wanted to write in it.
I am aware that Delight has long thought of this enchantment as a means of recording her life and communicating with an assortment of new and old friends, many of whom are not actually from this dimension. It is, as she noted two months ago, "not just letters to Boomsy".
But I am an old-fashioned prime, I suppose, and I have been thinking all this time of the scroll as a means of posting missives for Delight.
I have no need to post missives to Delight at this moment. She was in this very room not a third of an hour gone by, and shall return in an hour or two at most, I have no doubt. My Delight-in-Surprise is full of surprises! This unexpected visit is a most welcome one, do not mistake me! It has been nigh on two years since last we met in the flesh, and there is nothing quite so cheering as the physical presence of a beloved relation. So much is lost in mere writing, uncaptured by the black stroke of pen. The smile on her face, her boundless and bounding enthusiasm when caught by an idea, her eager impatience to suit deeds to words -- ah, how I've missed you, Dee, and not even known I missed you.
And yet ...
And yet.
Not every surprise has been as welcome as this one, and the sudden inexplicable animosity between my dear coz and my close friend is a guest I could do well without.
Forgive me, Delight, my foolish incomprehension. You expended a full third of an hour explaining the topic, and I have no excuse for pleading ignorance, save willfulness. Indeed, it is a willfull ignorance that refused to read the words when you tried to show them to me, that coiled tentacles before my earholes when you tried to read them aloud.
I do not want to know these words, these words of such great and awful power that they could sunder two primes I care for so deeply.
Whatever Song wrote within this scroll is buried and dead to me. Perhaps some Mentador monster controlled her into making false statements, or some bonstable scribbled them down in her name, or maybe it was merely a momentary lapse of judgement. Whatever it was, I know it was not my Song-for-Always that you read on this page, Delight. Not my Song-for-Always, who ransomed my drums when I pawned them for rent two years ago. Not my Song-for-Always, who stood her ground when four armed primes sought to teach an overly-locquacious Khtsoyis that it was not his place to use the speech of his betters. Not my Song-for-Always, who has rejected four offers to engage Don't Go in It's a Tarp! because they were contingent on her employing a drummer of some more acceptable species.
These actions shout louder than any words ever could. It is their bedlam noise, more even than the tentacles against my ears, that drowns out your efforts to explain, my dearest Delight.
It seems I had a message to write to you after all.
I feel I ought to apologize for writing this down instead of saying it. Sometimes speech is not my ally, when I must struggle for breath at the same time as I struggle for words. Perhaps it's easier to articulate my thoughts with ink on clean parchment.
I am sorry, dear coz.