3.30 - And They Lived...
"In the life of the Wicked, there is no after. In the ever after of the Wicked, there is no happily. In the story of the Wicked, there is no epilogue. Of that part that is beyond their life story, beyond the story of life, there is - alas, or perhaps thank mercy - no telling (Adapted from Maguire)."
I've suffered too many goodbyes in my life and I've learned to vehemently disdain the sensation. If there's been a recurrent theme in my life up until this point, it has been that people leave you when you become the most attached to them. When the times are a crucible and all. The farewells always seem hollow as the minute voice in my head mutters "Well, this sucks." It's hard and through no amount of repetition does it get any easier.
The events of recent days are too numerous and complicated to engage in now, now that we're at the end. This tale is nearly over and Maguire has the right idea about villains when he says that there isn't anything for them afterward. For them. The remnants have a plucky habit of enduring. The Brain is dead and gone with a swell of uncertainty and dependence that sustained his existence for so long.
I'm a night owl by habit. I don't keep regular hours and try to shake up my schedule when I find I've had a few consistent nights. I like to be awake when it seems that the rest of the world is dormant. I like the mollifying silence at 4 am. In those quiet reaches of the early morning hours, my mind has license to wander about unencumbered. I've found most of my epiphanies strike there in the inky blackness. I have devoted considerable thought to the subject of the Brain, what it meant, what ultimate purpose was served through existence and demise. Here's what I've figured out:
The Brain helped me to become autonomous. I was dealt some rather lousy parents. Don't get me wrong, they're good people and wonderful providers, they just never equipped me with many of the tools I needed. I never got enough attention. That may seem trite, but through that lack of attention, I wasn't given the super secret rules of society. So I had a left-footed trip through adolescence. I made it from one end to the other, but it was not a graceful crossing. Simply because nobody ever told me how to act. Or dress. Or cook. Or fight. Or behave. Or coexist. When I came to Carlisle, that void that had been growing without any of the aforementioned knowledge to fill it, the Brain took hold. He impelled me to figure out life for myself and on my own terms, I did. More or less. I realized no one was going to teach me and if I was to survive, I had to strive to learn. I had to be proactive. That's why I do so well at school, I want to learn, while most people merely expect to be taught.
What I've learned since then amounts to basically the same fact that I am an autonomous person. No one person is necessary to me. It's instinctual to a degree. The ambition to better myself is innate, I think. I'm still learning retroactively, getting a handle on the secret handshakes and hidden laws of the world, but at least I'm moving onward and up. I have role models now, and through their profiles and character, I have a crystalline image of who I want to be. Who I will be. When all is said and done.
I got a late start, but I'm in the running now. The Brain was the one who first said to me when I stood on the brink of oblivion, ready to jump "Wait, this isn't it? Is it? This can't be all there is." Once I answered that question for myself, he left, never to return, gone deep into those dark nether-regions from whence he came.
That's the last word on the Brain. For here and now and, to a near absolute certainty, forever. No one mourns the Wicked, we've established that. But in the aftermath, the wreckage and debris of life lived in secret, doesn't it warrant a pause? To stop for a moment. Let the ghosts of the past leave, those who have concluded their time on this earth. In their wake, there's room for all of the ghosts with unfinished business to begin working toward their end. So, ending on a note of silence, stillness in the last words, I'll stop here. For all that is written here is all there will ever be written on the Brain.
Respectfully Submitted,
Art
I've suffered too many goodbyes in my life and I've learned to vehemently disdain the sensation. If there's been a recurrent theme in my life up until this point, it has been that people leave you when you become the most attached to them. When the times are a crucible and all. The farewells always seem hollow as the minute voice in my head mutters "Well, this sucks." It's hard and through no amount of repetition does it get any easier.
The events of recent days are too numerous and complicated to engage in now, now that we're at the end. This tale is nearly over and Maguire has the right idea about villains when he says that there isn't anything for them afterward. For them. The remnants have a plucky habit of enduring. The Brain is dead and gone with a swell of uncertainty and dependence that sustained his existence for so long.
I'm a night owl by habit. I don't keep regular hours and try to shake up my schedule when I find I've had a few consistent nights. I like to be awake when it seems that the rest of the world is dormant. I like the mollifying silence at 4 am. In those quiet reaches of the early morning hours, my mind has license to wander about unencumbered. I've found most of my epiphanies strike there in the inky blackness. I have devoted considerable thought to the subject of the Brain, what it meant, what ultimate purpose was served through existence and demise. Here's what I've figured out:
The Brain helped me to become autonomous. I was dealt some rather lousy parents. Don't get me wrong, they're good people and wonderful providers, they just never equipped me with many of the tools I needed. I never got enough attention. That may seem trite, but through that lack of attention, I wasn't given the super secret rules of society. So I had a left-footed trip through adolescence. I made it from one end to the other, but it was not a graceful crossing. Simply because nobody ever told me how to act. Or dress. Or cook. Or fight. Or behave. Or coexist. When I came to Carlisle, that void that had been growing without any of the aforementioned knowledge to fill it, the Brain took hold. He impelled me to figure out life for myself and on my own terms, I did. More or less. I realized no one was going to teach me and if I was to survive, I had to strive to learn. I had to be proactive. That's why I do so well at school, I want to learn, while most people merely expect to be taught.
What I've learned since then amounts to basically the same fact that I am an autonomous person. No one person is necessary to me. It's instinctual to a degree. The ambition to better myself is innate, I think. I'm still learning retroactively, getting a handle on the secret handshakes and hidden laws of the world, but at least I'm moving onward and up. I have role models now, and through their profiles and character, I have a crystalline image of who I want to be. Who I will be. When all is said and done.
I got a late start, but I'm in the running now. The Brain was the one who first said to me when I stood on the brink of oblivion, ready to jump "Wait, this isn't it? Is it? This can't be all there is." Once I answered that question for myself, he left, never to return, gone deep into those dark nether-regions from whence he came.
That's the last word on the Brain. For here and now and, to a near absolute certainty, forever. No one mourns the Wicked, we've established that. But in the aftermath, the wreckage and debris of life lived in secret, doesn't it warrant a pause? To stop for a moment. Let the ghosts of the past leave, those who have concluded their time on this earth. In their wake, there's room for all of the ghosts with unfinished business to begin working toward their end. So, ending on a note of silence, stillness in the last words, I'll stop here. For all that is written here is all there will ever be written on the Brain.
Respectfully Submitted,
Art