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Stream of Conscience

 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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