Thu, 19 May 2005

good works
As the sort of changes which marked the earlier years grow smaller, the scope of the things she took as critical, talismans of each year past, grew smaller as well, which was ultimately a boon. The scars she put on when she first left the house begged for public display, so that they were never really hers, overwritten with the projections and false hope of everyone who paid witness, until the stories which once caught in the throat from raw human emotion caught a whiff of the maudlin and decorated. These small years held no stories, nothing she could build from at dinner parties or drunk smalltalk in the back of cabs. The lessons learned in those years were too hard to put words to, lopsided and irregular and lacking in anything approaching easy entertainment. The years of living for the amazement of others slipped away, glitter and gilding chipped away to good works and quiet spaces, and while she is never sure if it is better or worse, the now or the then, she is certain she now holds secrets, she now has things only she will know after spending so long overexposed.

The audience walked away from her story years ago, but I still see her sometimes, and I want to know all those secrets, because it kills me to have anything escape my sight, because I am a jackal, and a ghul.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #