Shh,
you say, to the bearer of bad news. Shh to
the news nobody wants to know. There is not much formality involved here. It is
not as if I am tied up or anything. I flit about and sometimes return to you because
I am curious and that is that. I have lots of hobbies. Like painting my ceiling
yellow. In fact, Shh to you. Quit
acting clever. Quit admiring the sun. Quit trying to express the beautiful
things you observe. Your motivations are all wrong. Please re-evaluate.
Since you never heed me I might go
away now. I might just back off and leave you to your own foolishness. Sorting
through your memories is wearisome. Nudging you in certain directions is disappointing.
You think you are ready to teach others but you do not know what to persuade
because you are not sure what you have been persuaded. All of this unfortunate
business reflects badly on me, and means dreadful things for you. Oh, how I
wish the Commander might reassign me to some more hopeful place, like Nineveh. Because
your words are not few, and most things about you are vain or in vain, or a
striving after wind, and I feel like a fool when I sit on your shoulders. Curious,
how you love all of the imperfection you observe and how you say it is
beautiful. Frustrating, how you treasure such things yet think no more of their
hidden things. You are easily satisfied with whimsical answers.
I might not be able to convince you that
time is only an illusion, or that an unchanging thing exists, or that you are
allowed to choose to love and that is something, at least. So I will shut
myself away from you and mourn for you beneath my painted yellow ceilings. I am
sorry. More sorry than usual, because I admire the nature of your flaw — your pride
in your world’s imperfection, and in your own imperfection. Dear friend, there
is beauty in imperfection. But imperfection, on its own, is not beautiful in the slightest.
.
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