this, an entry to my character’s roleplaying journal. no less me or my thoughts, though. in regard to an upcoming anniversary, and the nature of what is.
~journal entry, the Temple, Outlands, mid-morning~
Ah, diary… were I to try and summarize, you would think me quite mad, I’m sure. So much has changed.
The opening of the Dark Portal has brought the gapping maw of eternity as feared. Altering the very streams of time, it seems. There are rumors the TimeMaster himself is in flight, and one may only imagine what would/will/may come of it.
I would chuckle to write such a thing, but remind myself one never knows where one is in the stream of time but that others around one say it is ‘here and now’ rather than indicate it was ‘there and then’… which even reads oddly, only I know you know what it means.
Our first anniversary approaches, and I had thought to host the most amazing event… invite the world and crow for the joy of the foundation of our house remaining firm, strong, and steady.
But I rethink the insanity of such pride in a world torn with war and the despair of those who have forever lost their homes. What kindness to strut, crow, and preen over our good fortune in the faces of those who have lost all? It seems something of cruelty, in truth.
While the world and time may be cruel, I would much prefer not to be so when it may be avoided and am thankful that my eye could see it before the time, rather than after.
I do chuckle here. Time. It seems a theme today, does it not?
Time passes. Things change. Names appear like roses in the garden and then, just as one becomes content and perhaps reliant upon their sweetnesses, they fade and pass as well.
I ponder the wisdom of being so needful of the rose that I must mourn every season’s ending, and all their passings. Perhaps it would be wiser to savor them while here, and then, release them when they fade, and should they once more bloom, all thankfulness… and should they not, merely to smile for that they ever did so.
I am pleased to once more greet you, diary, and in you, find the truth of this lesson of the rose and it’s nature… for, setting myself as you a moment, I suspect I may at times appear as such myself… long neglect of you, only to return as if I have just decided to write… had you sentience, would you not think me that seasonal flower? Wonder if I would once more bloom?
Ah, my accepting, quiet, flat and thirsty friend, you diary page. How many times have you helped me ‘figure out’ a thorny problem such as the rose’s nature? And how many times have I sat here, laughter mixed with tears, to realize you are but a book, nothing more than blank pages, and the true battles happen here, within the landscape of the mind?
Some turn to the Temple and whisper confessional thoughts. Some speak to friends in quiet moments. Some speak only to strangers. Some can only speak when ale has loosened their tongue. Some never speak at all.
Myself… I most often speak to you… which is, I suppose, to speak to myself… words upon a page… reminding me that in the end, we all battle in these ways, even if we do not all write of them… and just as everyone else, often, it is not the world or others who are my ‘worst enemy’… but only myself, opponent and most tender nurse, taking turns flaying me or saving me here, in the battlefield of the mind.
I pause. Laughter at it all, of course. No, I fear I am no less serious than ever I was… but I do smile. It is a merry time, I am delighted by the roses within the garden, each of them, all of them… I thought to name them, but why? Shall some small bloomlet weep for seeing only the large, most fragrant blossoms remembered?
No. Instead, simply to say, ‘In the garden of this house, there are many roses… and in each of them, I take sincere and solemn delight.’
And no, I shall not strut and preen in the last days of that third month… instead, walk in the garden, enjoy the scent, delight in velvet petals and presence.
Ending here with yet another chuckle. Stars save me from the analogy and the irresistibility of the metaphor.