The Oasis is but a Mirage
Posted: Tue Mar 26, 2019 2:54 am
Hardship bred possibilities. Where had he learned that? It was not a Myrken lesson. In Myrken Wood, hardship toughened you. That wasn't the same thing. It was not part of his dogma or creed, part of Her teachings. For the former, hardship was to be overcome; for the later, something to be stamped out to create space for luxury and comfort. Where, then? Through living. That was the only way he had found recent truths. Everything else was noise. Everything else was distraction. Everything else was false, or potentially false. Therefore, hardship and experience bred life itself.
Also, though, they bred possibilities. In this case, he had found clarity with the loss of his right eye. He had tried, in years past, in moments of boredom before he knew better (though he had never known better; that was another falsehood), to cross his eyes, to control the focus of his gaze, to try to crack the code and find the secret to how it worked, how two eyes with a short distance between them could somehow function as one. Some people tried to understand death or magic or the weather. This would have been enough at him, staring at a tree, moving closer to it, farther away. Just looking at his finger. This was clearer, cleaner. He didn't have to think about it. Now, he just saw.
He had met men who had lost their limbs at Snowstill (that was true? He thought that was true. Where was the line exactly? He wasn't at all sure). They spoke of still feeling the limb. He didn't feel an eye. Who felt an eye? It was just there. There was a dull ache now and again, but that was different. It went deeper, that ache, all the way to the center of him. The missing eye was just a convenient entry point. It was a symbol, maybe? He was never very good with such things. By this point, he'd come to understand that he probably never would be, no matter who he was.
There were more important issues than symbolism. Symbolism was a luxury. Understanding the world around you to that degree? That was a luxury. Art. Literature. Poetry. A luxury. Did they have value? Every bit of himself said they had not just value but primacy. They were the most important things in the world. Yet, they were luxuries. He knew that now. They were luxuries he could not afford. What could he afford? A bed. Food. He had lost his eye, lost so much more, but had not come back empty handed.
He needed those things. They were not luxuries. They were necessities, they and one thing more.
He needed answers.
And if answers were to be found anywhere, they would be found at that decrepit tavern at the heart of it all.
Myrken Wood as the only home he had yet he knew now that he had no home at all. This was not because the place did not exist. It did. He was nearly upon it.
What did not exist was the person.
Also, though, they bred possibilities. In this case, he had found clarity with the loss of his right eye. He had tried, in years past, in moments of boredom before he knew better (though he had never known better; that was another falsehood), to cross his eyes, to control the focus of his gaze, to try to crack the code and find the secret to how it worked, how two eyes with a short distance between them could somehow function as one. Some people tried to understand death or magic or the weather. This would have been enough at him, staring at a tree, moving closer to it, farther away. Just looking at his finger. This was clearer, cleaner. He didn't have to think about it. Now, he just saw.
He had met men who had lost their limbs at Snowstill (that was true? He thought that was true. Where was the line exactly? He wasn't at all sure). They spoke of still feeling the limb. He didn't feel an eye. Who felt an eye? It was just there. There was a dull ache now and again, but that was different. It went deeper, that ache, all the way to the center of him. The missing eye was just a convenient entry point. It was a symbol, maybe? He was never very good with such things. By this point, he'd come to understand that he probably never would be, no matter who he was.
There were more important issues than symbolism. Symbolism was a luxury. Understanding the world around you to that degree? That was a luxury. Art. Literature. Poetry. A luxury. Did they have value? Every bit of himself said they had not just value but primacy. They were the most important things in the world. Yet, they were luxuries. He knew that now. They were luxuries he could not afford. What could he afford? A bed. Food. He had lost his eye, lost so much more, but had not come back empty handed.
He needed those things. They were not luxuries. They were necessities, they and one thing more.
He needed answers.
And if answers were to be found anywhere, they would be found at that decrepit tavern at the heart of it all.
Myrken Wood as the only home he had yet he knew now that he had no home at all. This was not because the place did not exist. It did. He was nearly upon it.
What did not exist was the person.