Ironic, isn't it?
I still leaf through his journal - no, not so much a journal, not now. It's more a diary. His Diary of Impossible Things.
Ironic, isn't it?
The title he bestowed upon it? What John Smith thought were fanciful tales of excitement and adventure told by a leading man of enigmatic wisdom. He so believed them to be dreams. Imaginary. And as I sit here now, carefully thumbing through the yellowing pages I can't help but wonder ... how could they not be? A blue box of magical properties? Stories of worlds and wars millennia from my own? It is beyond my comprehension.
Ironic, isn't it?
That these imaginings were a deeper truth than John himself? I pause at a familiar page, one damaged by the trickle of tears shed long ago. The scribble of a woman stares fondly at me, as though she too is aware and understands this customary moment. And I return her stare, perplexed as to who she was, or is, or has been. Had she meant as much to Jo - the Doctor, must remember to call him the Doctor ... Had she meant as much to him as
John does to me?
Ironic, isn't it?
Two women, from two very different worlds falling in love with the same, yet entirely different man? Or perhaps it was an unrequited love? That is what a truly intricate leading man needs. To fall in love with a beautiful woman whom he cannot have. That is what such a tale should have, rather than a woman who cannot have her leading man.
Ironic, isn't it?