Entry tags:
So Bright, So Rare
I never thought she was human.
It's easy enough to say in retrospect. "Of course I knew," you say, because in finding the explanation all the pieces come together and fit. It makes sense, and there's suddenly no other way it could have been.
Let me repeat myself: I never thought she was human.
I could probably make a list of the little things that didn't add up. The bright shine of her hair when she wasn't in the sun, her seeming occasional confusions when touching everyday things, maybe the way she deflected introspection.
You don't notice these things as you cuddle and read fairytales, or watch old musicals, or run out into the raindrops laughing.
Maybe these things come to you for a moment but your brain makes rationalizations and you don't even need to think them through.
I never thought she was human, even from the start. I wasn't sure what she was, but it didn't matter to me. I loved her, and she seemed to love me, and we were together, and that was what mattered.
"A whirlwind of now leaves devastation to tomorrow," I remember writing it in my journal, but I was caught in the buffeting of breezes, of laughter, of song, of the clever rhetoric and quips from the couch, or the quotes she read aloud, laughing, from my library.
She was a whirlwind, a storm on the horizon, a bolt of lightning into my life, but never merely so much or so little as human.
I suspected. I know what Jeannie had become.
She was not merely the same thing, but of light. Angels and demons, all of them orbiting humanity, occasionally being tripped out of place and left crashing against our souls?
I do not believe what it is the poets have said, that nothing good comes from the sparks of mortal and otherkind. What we had was good.
I do not believe that they cannot love, that they cannot regret.
I cannot believe that and stay sane here, in this place.
She is the brightness I think of when the lights go out.
I am human. I am what remains. But she was never human, and neither are these things, with their hands, and their paws, and their claws, and their wicked little snorts of laughter. They are of a kind, they share something between them, she and these folk. A lack of something, or too much of it, I am not sure. A different view of the world.
Would I be a missionary, bringing a bit of humanity to the goblins? Or will they just feed on it?
It's easy enough to say in retrospect. "Of course I knew," you say, because in finding the explanation all the pieces come together and fit. It makes sense, and there's suddenly no other way it could have been.
Let me repeat myself: I never thought she was human.
I could probably make a list of the little things that didn't add up. The bright shine of her hair when she wasn't in the sun, her seeming occasional confusions when touching everyday things, maybe the way she deflected introspection.
You don't notice these things as you cuddle and read fairytales, or watch old musicals, or run out into the raindrops laughing.
Maybe these things come to you for a moment but your brain makes rationalizations and you don't even need to think them through.
I never thought she was human, even from the start. I wasn't sure what she was, but it didn't matter to me. I loved her, and she seemed to love me, and we were together, and that was what mattered.
"A whirlwind of now leaves devastation to tomorrow," I remember writing it in my journal, but I was caught in the buffeting of breezes, of laughter, of song, of the clever rhetoric and quips from the couch, or the quotes she read aloud, laughing, from my library.
She was a whirlwind, a storm on the horizon, a bolt of lightning into my life, but never merely so much or so little as human.
I suspected. I know what Jeannie had become.
She was not merely the same thing, but of light. Angels and demons, all of them orbiting humanity, occasionally being tripped out of place and left crashing against our souls?
I do not believe what it is the poets have said, that nothing good comes from the sparks of mortal and otherkind. What we had was good.
I do not believe that they cannot love, that they cannot regret.
I cannot believe that and stay sane here, in this place.
She is the brightness I think of when the lights go out.
I am human. I am what remains. But she was never human, and neither are these things, with their hands, and their paws, and their claws, and their wicked little snorts of laughter. They are of a kind, they share something between them, she and these folk. A lack of something, or too much of it, I am not sure. A different view of the world.
Would I be a missionary, bringing a bit of humanity to the goblins? Or will they just feed on it?