Where do I go, from here? (Lucky at 13, initial post)
Buffy Anne Summers died as she lived: a true hero, who was never content to take the easy way out... in spite of the rather unfortunate associations her full name brings to mind -- as if being lumbered with "Buffy" wasn't bad enough. While this might, in part, explain not being taken as seriously as she should have been, speculation at this point in time is meaningless.
I tore the page out of my journal, and started again, for the fifth - or was it the sixth? - time. I had definitely reached the nadir of avoidance with that attempt. And Buffy wondered why Watchers were so loathe to accurately chronicle the deaths of their Slayers, leaving so many unanswered questions. In my own case, I discovered brevity possessed the virtue of not couching my feelings in meaningless bureaucratic double-speak (or puerile attempts at humour).
My desire to finish my final entry as the active Watcher of a Slayer was both motivated, and retarded, by the news that Quentin Travers had been appointed to fill the recent vacancy at the head of the Council's Board of Governors. Working with the man was one thing, but I'm not entirely certain I can stomach working for him. What I will do if I discover I can't is an open question.
The one thing I absolutely refuse to do is "rest on my laurels," as so many of my predecessors have done. I've had quite enough of that for one lifetime already, long enough to discover that it isn't at all good for me, personally, or productive in any larger sense. I don't fancy the idea of merely taking up space in the Council's offices as a Watcher Emeritus, either, drawing my salary for no reason other than once having trained a Slayer. If nothing else, I just want to be of use, somehow.
I don't see time I can afford to squander stretching out endlessly before me any more, if I ever truly did. In the back of my mind, I think the minutes of my hour to strut and fret upon the stage of life have always been ticking away audibly. There were times I succeeded in drowning it out, for a time... but those rare occasions were years ago, now. The awareness of how fragile and finite we all are never really goes away, once acquired.
(no tag)
I tore the page out of my journal, and started again, for the fifth - or was it the sixth? - time. I had definitely reached the nadir of avoidance with that attempt. And Buffy wondered why Watchers were so loathe to accurately chronicle the deaths of their Slayers, leaving so many unanswered questions. In my own case, I discovered brevity possessed the virtue of not couching my feelings in meaningless bureaucratic double-speak (or puerile attempts at humour).
My desire to finish my final entry as the active Watcher of a Slayer was both motivated, and retarded, by the news that Quentin Travers had been appointed to fill the recent vacancy at the head of the Council's Board of Governors. Working with the man was one thing, but I'm not entirely certain I can stomach working for him. What I will do if I discover I can't is an open question.
The one thing I absolutely refuse to do is "rest on my laurels," as so many of my predecessors have done. I've had quite enough of that for one lifetime already, long enough to discover that it isn't at all good for me, personally, or productive in any larger sense. I don't fancy the idea of merely taking up space in the Council's offices as a Watcher Emeritus, either, drawing my salary for no reason other than once having trained a Slayer. If nothing else, I just want to be of use, somehow.
I don't see time I can afford to squander stretching out endlessly before me any more, if I ever truly did. In the back of my mind, I think the minutes of my hour to strut and fret upon the stage of life have always been ticking away audibly. There were times I succeeded in drowning it out, for a time... but those rare occasions were years ago, now. The awareness of how fragile and finite we all are never really goes away, once acquired.
(no tag)