Graveyard.
A dear friend of mine just wrote:
"Nothing in my life is the same as it was a year ago. It feels like some
one has died."
I'm not sure if I should say to her: someone has died. The person she used to be.
I should know. I carry a graveyard in my heart, and I visit it some nights when there's no one else around. Let me show you.
See, over here, by the shade of this pond, there's the grave with its marker, "Gifted Child." That one was loved by all, but it had to do what all gifted children have to do, eventually; it had to go and grow up. We'll favor this grave with a solemn nod and move on.
There's an open grave, here near the entrance, waiting, death date not filled in yet, inscription unclear and I don't want to read it: I'm a little afraid that it might simply say, "Professional Web Developer," and I'm not looking forward to that funeral.
Let's keep going. Here's another one, an older one: "The Fan." This is the one who ran fan clubs and conventions and live-action games and turned away from the wide world so he could thrive in a smaller one, and he passed on when he finally took to heart what he knew all along -- that his gods and heroes, the special dreamers who made the special dreams he loved, were just bastards doing it all for money just like the rest of us.
Pardon me, please, for my moment of awkward silence at the graves of The Twins. I always feel this way, staring down at them -- the long-lived "Renée's Lover" and the almost stillborn "Renée's Husband." These two I don't understand, and maybe I never will.
What? No, we're not going over there, not to the center of the graveyard, not to the mausoleum. I won't tell you who's buried there -- I don't know you well enough, not yet. I'll only tell you this much: some of the selves lying here died of natural causes, and some the world killed. But the one who lies in that grave -- one fine terrible night, I killed him myself. I did it with these two hands. Can you still see the blood? It's all right if you can't. I can, and that's what matters.
It's all right if you want to leave now. I can stay here by myself.
I do, some nights. I stay for hours, and I'll drink until the names on the graves shift in my blurring sight, and I'll stare at them and wonder. What better use they would have made of the life I have now, if they'd lived.
And that's all right. It's all right to come here sometimes, and mourn.
But there's a secret.
The secret is -- After the night, after the mourning, comes dawn. The secret is -- you can walk out of here any time you like. And you do, and you keep going. Because there's always a road that leads out of here, and a rising sun to follow.
I'm not sure if I should say to her: someone has died. The person she used to be.
I should know. I carry a graveyard in my heart, and I visit it some nights when there's no one else around. Let me show you.
See, over here, by the shade of this pond, there's the grave with its marker, "Gifted Child." That one was loved by all, but it had to do what all gifted children have to do, eventually; it had to go and grow up. We'll favor this grave with a solemn nod and move on.
There's an open grave, here near the entrance, waiting, death date not filled in yet, inscription unclear and I don't want to read it: I'm a little afraid that it might simply say, "Professional Web Developer," and I'm not looking forward to that funeral.
Let's keep going. Here's another one, an older one: "The Fan." This is the one who ran fan clubs and conventions and live-action games and turned away from the wide world so he could thrive in a smaller one, and he passed on when he finally took to heart what he knew all along -- that his gods and heroes, the special dreamers who made the special dreams he loved, were just bastards doing it all for money just like the rest of us.
Pardon me, please, for my moment of awkward silence at the graves of The Twins. I always feel this way, staring down at them -- the long-lived "Renée's Lover" and the almost stillborn "Renée's Husband." These two I don't understand, and maybe I never will.
What? No, we're not going over there, not to the center of the graveyard, not to the mausoleum. I won't tell you who's buried there -- I don't know you well enough, not yet. I'll only tell you this much: some of the selves lying here died of natural causes, and some the world killed. But the one who lies in that grave -- one fine terrible night, I killed him myself. I did it with these two hands. Can you still see the blood? It's all right if you can't. I can, and that's what matters.
It's all right if you want to leave now. I can stay here by myself.
I do, some nights. I stay for hours, and I'll drink until the names on the graves shift in my blurring sight, and I'll stare at them and wonder. What better use they would have made of the life I have now, if they'd lived.
And that's all right. It's all right to come here sometimes, and mourn.
But there's a secret.
The secret is -- After the night, after the mourning, comes dawn. The secret is -- you can walk out of here any time you like. And you do, and you keep going. Because there's always a road that leads out of here, and a rising sun to follow.