[Elynne] on the closing of a door
I promised I wouldn't mope. Really, I made that promise to myself. And I've already broken it.
I feel... sad, yes. A little angry. A lot disappointed. Nothing was promised; nothing was taken. But a potential has diminished to a dim glow. I have difficulty listening to other people tease and flirt, now. I had that, for a little while... a hope rekindled after so many years. I don't think I want it again.
I want to be bitter and more angry; that would be cleaner than this clinging despondency. I want to believe that she (whoever she is) will eventually come to her senses, and realize that the shared context between them (hundreds of years longer than I have been alive, language and city, upbringing and culture that I have never, will never understand) isn't enough to bind them together in any meaningful way. She is a paladin. I can't help but wonder why she is choosing to align herself with him, if she is overlooking or ignoring the fundamental difference between how they function--I can't even say "how they live," as in one half, that word simply doesn't apply. And then I remember... how was I any different? I have been taught that undeath is unnatural, the antithesis of everything I do, everything I am. But... it isn't that simple. It never was.
What is this I'm feeling? I'm not lonely--I have friends, many of them, associates; even that ghost that shadows me, thinking that I don't see her. Nothing has been taken away. He still talks to me, considers me a close, good friend. We still have shared experiences, and will probably have many more. And there is always the possibility... that one day his attention will return to me, in the way I was hoping for.
I was not made for this. That realization is strong, bitter, powerful and painful. Presuming that I was fashioned for some task, that task was not love. Not for him, or anyone else I have ever cared for. Love is nice... but ultimately irrelevant. It is a decoration painted onto the facts of survival. At the core of love is friendship, and I still have that, so why would I need the lace and ribbons?
I tell myself this over and over, and hope that eventually, I will be convinced.
I can't go to the glade any more. I only wallow there. I have to find new places to go... or just return to the solitary haunts I have already found. There is a whole world, full of such places. There is one, under warm waters, where a strong swimmer who knows how to breathe in the absence of wind can drift, held in the embrace of a rib cage from a beast unknown to these ages, and look up to the distant sun through columns of light and forests of extravagant colors. In that blood-warm, salty sea, there are no tears.
I feel... sad, yes. A little angry. A lot disappointed. Nothing was promised; nothing was taken. But a potential has diminished to a dim glow. I have difficulty listening to other people tease and flirt, now. I had that, for a little while... a hope rekindled after so many years. I don't think I want it again.
I want to be bitter and more angry; that would be cleaner than this clinging despondency. I want to believe that she (whoever she is) will eventually come to her senses, and realize that the shared context between them (hundreds of years longer than I have been alive, language and city, upbringing and culture that I have never, will never understand) isn't enough to bind them together in any meaningful way. She is a paladin. I can't help but wonder why she is choosing to align herself with him, if she is overlooking or ignoring the fundamental difference between how they function--I can't even say "how they live," as in one half, that word simply doesn't apply. And then I remember... how was I any different? I have been taught that undeath is unnatural, the antithesis of everything I do, everything I am. But... it isn't that simple. It never was.
What is this I'm feeling? I'm not lonely--I have friends, many of them, associates; even that ghost that shadows me, thinking that I don't see her. Nothing has been taken away. He still talks to me, considers me a close, good friend. We still have shared experiences, and will probably have many more. And there is always the possibility... that one day his attention will return to me, in the way I was hoping for.
I was not made for this. That realization is strong, bitter, powerful and painful. Presuming that I was fashioned for some task, that task was not love. Not for him, or anyone else I have ever cared for. Love is nice... but ultimately irrelevant. It is a decoration painted onto the facts of survival. At the core of love is friendship, and I still have that, so why would I need the lace and ribbons?
I tell myself this over and over, and hope that eventually, I will be convinced.
I can't go to the glade any more. I only wallow there. I have to find new places to go... or just return to the solitary haunts I have already found. There is a whole world, full of such places. There is one, under warm waters, where a strong swimmer who knows how to breathe in the absence of wind can drift, held in the embrace of a rib cage from a beast unknown to these ages, and look up to the distant sun through columns of light and forests of extravagant colors. In that blood-warm, salty sea, there are no tears.