Worthy of a name
Apr. 22nd, 2013 05:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talonkarrdeThere is a certain moment in twilight when the light and the darkness vie for supremacy.
It takes a specific type of room — a personal library, often, with floor-to-ceiling windows — where motion and movement are enhanced by soft edges and softer rugs, where an overstuffed armchair and a mahogany end table with a silver platter and cup of tea on it allow for rest and respite, something that takes up more and more of your time these days.
You sit and sip and watch as the sun hides itself behind the distant mountains, as the last rays shoot over the craggy peaks that you climbed, once, a long long time ago. You think of the rocks and the ledges and the snow and it brings up memories and reveries of the Misty Mountains, of Moria, of Mordor, of the ridges of high fantasy and unexpected journeys there and back again. A brilliant ray of sunshine pierces the clouds and you think of the dragon, of the smoke and the fire, and you remember that one moment where the hero stands his ground, blade drawn and gleaming from the fire, facing certain death with a steadiness that you know, now, having seen in in the eyes of firefighters and soldiers and parents and all sorts of people, standing up for what they believe in.
You've written that scene, once or twice, and you have a collection of letters on the closest shelf where they tell you they cried, knowing what it meant, knowing why he had to, why she didn't flinch.
The sun fades a little more and the light is dimmer, darker, evoking a more monochrome look to the scattered buildings you see below. Without color, it seems almost sterile, in a way, and you think of tight spaces and grey airlocks, of the expanses of space and time as humanity spreads across the stars. You think of starships and Prime Directives and alien species all coming together for a better goal, and a better future, and you think of the multiverses out there with ringworlds and browncoats and four elephants standing on a giant turtle. You smile a bit, don't you?
Because you've written some of those stories, too, and you remember the tears as you read other letters where people wrote to you and they understood. They saw past the technobabble, past the aliens, and saw through to the society you wanted to see, the equality that everyone deserved.
Now it's too dark to see, and you light a candle, watching as the yellow light flickers over the spines of the books that you've read again and again, the worlds that you take solace in and take inspiration from, the lands far away and close to home that you couldn't imagine being without. You've always preferred the soft light of the candle over the hard fluorescents, perhaps because it reminds you of Milton, of Shakespeare, of ancient scribes copying out ancient myths on ancient parchment.
You may have written some of that, too, historical fiction that taught and entertained and inspired all at once, tales which reminded us of how the world was before and of the innummerable shoulders that we have stood on to get where we are, because we forget so quickly.
And as the candle burns steadily, you write a few more words in your own personal journal. Your thoughts, your beliefs, your actions are all in here, and you remember the few times that you've shown others. You remember the hugs, the phone calls, the support that was both given and received and you remember a rule about empathy: shared pain is lessened, and shared joy increased.
And maybe, you think, you'll share this, too.
-
The candle slowly burns its way down, as the darkness comes like a blanket over you, and your last thought is of a favorite poem of yours, one that you know by heart. You speak it, softly, slowly, out loud, letting the words settle.
And afterwards you think, perhaps, there aren't too many promises left, too many miles to go now. And after all of this, after it ends, you hope that when they remember you, they'll remember one thing first: writer.
It takes a specific type of room — a personal library, often, with floor-to-ceiling windows — where motion and movement are enhanced by soft edges and softer rugs, where an overstuffed armchair and a mahogany end table with a silver platter and cup of tea on it allow for rest and respite, something that takes up more and more of your time these days.
You sit and sip and watch as the sun hides itself behind the distant mountains, as the last rays shoot over the craggy peaks that you climbed, once, a long long time ago. You think of the rocks and the ledges and the snow and it brings up memories and reveries of the Misty Mountains, of Moria, of Mordor, of the ridges of high fantasy and unexpected journeys there and back again. A brilliant ray of sunshine pierces the clouds and you think of the dragon, of the smoke and the fire, and you remember that one moment where the hero stands his ground, blade drawn and gleaming from the fire, facing certain death with a steadiness that you know, now, having seen in in the eyes of firefighters and soldiers and parents and all sorts of people, standing up for what they believe in.
You've written that scene, once or twice, and you have a collection of letters on the closest shelf where they tell you they cried, knowing what it meant, knowing why he had to, why she didn't flinch.
The sun fades a little more and the light is dimmer, darker, evoking a more monochrome look to the scattered buildings you see below. Without color, it seems almost sterile, in a way, and you think of tight spaces and grey airlocks, of the expanses of space and time as humanity spreads across the stars. You think of starships and Prime Directives and alien species all coming together for a better goal, and a better future, and you think of the multiverses out there with ringworlds and browncoats and four elephants standing on a giant turtle. You smile a bit, don't you?
Because you've written some of those stories, too, and you remember the tears as you read other letters where people wrote to you and they understood. They saw past the technobabble, past the aliens, and saw through to the society you wanted to see, the equality that everyone deserved.
Now it's too dark to see, and you light a candle, watching as the yellow light flickers over the spines of the books that you've read again and again, the worlds that you take solace in and take inspiration from, the lands far away and close to home that you couldn't imagine being without. You've always preferred the soft light of the candle over the hard fluorescents, perhaps because it reminds you of Milton, of Shakespeare, of ancient scribes copying out ancient myths on ancient parchment.
You may have written some of that, too, historical fiction that taught and entertained and inspired all at once, tales which reminded us of how the world was before and of the innummerable shoulders that we have stood on to get where we are, because we forget so quickly.
And as the candle burns steadily, you write a few more words in your own personal journal. Your thoughts, your beliefs, your actions are all in here, and you remember the few times that you've shown others. You remember the hugs, the phone calls, the support that was both given and received and you remember a rule about empathy: shared pain is lessened, and shared joy increased.
And maybe, you think, you'll share this, too.
-
The candle slowly burns its way down, as the darkness comes like a blanket over you, and your last thought is of a favorite poem of yours, one that you know by heart. You speak it, softly, slowly, out loud, letting the words settle.
And afterwards you think, perhaps, there aren't too many promises left, too many miles to go now. And after all of this, after it ends, you hope that when they remember you, they'll remember one thing first: writer.
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no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 05:49 am (UTC)This is precise and calculating.
This is wonderful.
Well done.
But if you make me panic by posting at the very last minute again, I might get grumpy.
Good luck, and go MAN-POWER!
no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 12:01 pm (UTC)This was my favorite meta piece towards writing this season, as well. It just hits so damn close to home. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:52 pm (UTC)Thanks :)
no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:53 pm (UTC)And man-power, sure, but I think writer-power, more than that. May the best writer win? ;)
no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 04:59 pm (UTC)You're welcome. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 12:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 06:27 pm (UTC)I'm dismayed that this is going to be over soon.
no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 07:58 pm (UTC)It's never over, you know. I mean, yes, it is, but it doesn't really end. There will always be more, and more importantly than that, the relationships have been formed and those will always be there.
As long as we keep writing, there's really no end.
no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 08:13 pm (UTC)