(no subject)
Everything is going to go away. Everything is ephemeral. You have to deal with that; there's no choice. We all die and, sadly, sometimes more than once. But inevitably even these second chances will be ripped from us one day; the magick can only spread so far, certainly. You will die. Everyone who knew you will die, and everyone they knew will die too. Even if our children or great-great-grandchildren make the leap to incorruptible silicon synapses and simulated biochemicals and infinitely reproducible digital minds, living on near zero energy with megahertz thoughts that span centuries, eventually the universe will dodder towards maximum entropy and none of it will mean a thing anymore.
It's really rather stupid to feel bad that your name is writ on water; everything is. It always has been, and it will be no matter what you do. We try to have fun or do something meaningful anyway. Drink from that cup as if it's already broken, because you know and I know that it bloody well is.
I was given my second lease on life in a dodgy place known only as The City. I was not grateful for the gift. My body may have once again had some semblance of the life spark within it, but I, the man himself, had none. Understand that I had given up hope. I had no faith left -- not in myself, not in humankind, not in love, friendship, integrity, this ethereal whoseewhatsit called God, nothing.
And all for the love of a woman I had lost months before.
I was deeply pathetic, and I know it. I had spent so many days sitting in my bathroom, staring at razors and bottles of pills. I'd stared at the walls and counted the cracks in the ceiling, hoping against hope that that day was the day I'd have the courage to give the gift back. But it never came. I had not the energy to kill myself, but neither had I the energy to live.
Then Juno Caplan came along.
No.. that's a bit much. It implies some knowledge of my presence and pain on her part, and that would have been impossible. Few people in The City even knew I was there; they did not share in the hatred of me that I wished upon myself. No one knew me well enough to hate me, rather they were indifferent to me. I was at best a footnote in the many acquaintances those who had seen me had, someone for whom indifference was the best response they could muster. No, a neighbour fobbed her off on me, having remembered at a gathering that I had balthered while in my cups that I was an investigator of sorts.
That may not have even been why. I think perhaps in the end he had simply tired of hosting her.
Distraction became investigation became obsession- she had presented me with a case and I had to solve it. It became my driving need; an imperative in someone who no longer had any other reasons to live. She had lost someone named Fox Mulder, all that remained of him were the papers he had left behind, his own interpretations of the religion and writings of the man who had inevitably killed him, Walter Sullivan.
And now, much time later I lie in this church, in this town, the genesis of that killer, the land of his birth. I am weak, broken, beaten down by those who had once been my lifeline, the one group of people I had come to trust when I lived in Los Angeles, a stranger in a strange land.
I am a Watcher again, availed of a Slayer. She's gone to help me. I, it seems, am worthy of helping, assuming she returns on time. At times when one's very existence is threatened the most deeply does the urge, the desire to live bloom forth. I do not want to die of these injuries, surely.
But for how much longer? Given the hope I may yet be healed, how long will it be before the morass of hopelessness, the stark terror of staring upon my own presentiment even loses its meaning? Will I ever cease to search for you, Fred? Or have I finally realised how lost to me you are, you were, that hope is fleeting and you never were meant to be mine?
I wonder what Juno's doing right now..
It's really rather stupid to feel bad that your name is writ on water; everything is. It always has been, and it will be no matter what you do. We try to have fun or do something meaningful anyway. Drink from that cup as if it's already broken, because you know and I know that it bloody well is.
I was given my second lease on life in a dodgy place known only as The City. I was not grateful for the gift. My body may have once again had some semblance of the life spark within it, but I, the man himself, had none. Understand that I had given up hope. I had no faith left -- not in myself, not in humankind, not in love, friendship, integrity, this ethereal whoseewhatsit called God, nothing.
And all for the love of a woman I had lost months before.
I was deeply pathetic, and I know it. I had spent so many days sitting in my bathroom, staring at razors and bottles of pills. I'd stared at the walls and counted the cracks in the ceiling, hoping against hope that that day was the day I'd have the courage to give the gift back. But it never came. I had not the energy to kill myself, but neither had I the energy to live.
Then Juno Caplan came along.
No.. that's a bit much. It implies some knowledge of my presence and pain on her part, and that would have been impossible. Few people in The City even knew I was there; they did not share in the hatred of me that I wished upon myself. No one knew me well enough to hate me, rather they were indifferent to me. I was at best a footnote in the many acquaintances those who had seen me had, someone for whom indifference was the best response they could muster. No, a neighbour fobbed her off on me, having remembered at a gathering that I had balthered while in my cups that I was an investigator of sorts.
That may not have even been why. I think perhaps in the end he had simply tired of hosting her.
Distraction became investigation became obsession- she had presented me with a case and I had to solve it. It became my driving need; an imperative in someone who no longer had any other reasons to live. She had lost someone named Fox Mulder, all that remained of him were the papers he had left behind, his own interpretations of the religion and writings of the man who had inevitably killed him, Walter Sullivan.
And now, much time later I lie in this church, in this town, the genesis of that killer, the land of his birth. I am weak, broken, beaten down by those who had once been my lifeline, the one group of people I had come to trust when I lived in Los Angeles, a stranger in a strange land.
I am a Watcher again, availed of a Slayer. She's gone to help me. I, it seems, am worthy of helping, assuming she returns on time. At times when one's very existence is threatened the most deeply does the urge, the desire to live bloom forth. I do not want to die of these injuries, surely.
But for how much longer? Given the hope I may yet be healed, how long will it be before the morass of hopelessness, the stark terror of staring upon my own presentiment even loses its meaning? Will I ever cease to search for you, Fred? Or have I finally realised how lost to me you are, you were, that hope is fleeting and you never were meant to be mine?
I wonder what Juno's doing right now..