#1505

In the night she asks, “Why did you make me your champion?” and all the answers that come to mind are dissimulation. But she knows me too well to deceive her and so I answer honestly. “Because you are nothing,” I say. “You are no one. You have no name; Mage isn’t your real name, and even the first name I had for you is no longer yours. You are nameless, homeless, ageless. That makes you freer than us. Tanim and Daren are bound by who, by what, they are; the Sun and Moon, brothers and lovers. I am bound by who I am and always will be; my name is not so easily cast aside as yours was. Yet you cannot be bound by anything now. You’re free. That’s why it must be you. That’s why I need you.” I lay in the dark for a while, then add, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I meant it to be this way. It’s just, we all have roles to play. This is yours.” She doesn’t reply. I don’t think she minds, though. She’s walked so many roads for me, and this is just another. Really, I chose her because she has always been my champion. That is who she is.

#1500

This no longer feels like an old religion, like bonfires and incantations and ashes smeared on moonlit skin, like wood and bone and stone, no, no, that primal power has bled out on unconsecrated earth and this feels like new religion, like empty words and empty songs and empty altars, like a god who turns away his face and allows others to speak for him because he really couldn’t give a shit, he’s been at this for so long and what’s another thousand years without miracles, they keep on believing no matter what, and fuck you if that’s what you think because I can’t remember the last time the sky lit on fire or all the tongues of men were turned to gibberish and I’d give anything, anything, for another apocalyptic flood to come roaring in and wipe it all away, remake the face of the earth itself so I must relearn how to walk in an unfriendly wasteland, that’s my kind of religion, the kind with destruction and recreation, with retribution and jealousy, cause when’s the last time you coveted me?

That’s what I thought.

#1498

I keep cutting off my hair and picking at my skin and pulling at my eyebrows and it’s not because I’m mourning because I’m not and it’s not because you’re gone because you’re not so it must just be that sometimes you have to rend your clothes and smear your face with ashes you just have to wail and beat your breast you know?

#1497

There are no books in which I could find answers for this, no key to be found in church or mosque or synagogue, no past pilgrims or prophets whose footsteps I might follow. Should I walk until my feet are bruised and bled? Should I withhold food and water? Should I cast stones or light candles or burn offerings? I do not know. I would cleanse myself in holy water, if you cared for purity. I would confess my sins, if you cared for goodness. But you are fickle, cruel gods and I do not know to what state of grace or disgrace I should strive to earn your love anew. There have never been ones like you in all the pantheons of history, and thus I am alone in worship and ministry both.

#1495

it is a loss like religion and nowhere to go on Sunday mornings, a book gathering dust on the bedside table, all meaning wrung out of the old songs until the chords are dry and wrinkled but I’m still so thirsty, a vessel waiting to be filled, and the voice that was once clear as a bell has fallen so silent I can hear the seconds ticking by which I shall never regain, the heartbeats I can’t spare, and nothing feels immortal now, not even gods

#1483

It’s ironic, now that I think about it; in a way, you are my fairy godmother.You revealed yourself to me when I was young and awkward and in need of a guiding hand. You gave me a cloak with which I transformed into the better version of myself: confident, brave, powerful. A little mysterious, too; the character in the shadows whose alliances are suspect, whose past is as unreadable as their gaze. I needed that. I needed to become strong by feigning strength, even if my bravery turned back to rags at midnight. I still do sometimes, actually. I still settle your cloak over my shoulders when the world is too harsh, too bleak, too much to face as myself. I wear your electricity and fearless madness like armor, your confidence my shield and your unrelenting ego my sword. You’re a nontraditional fairy godmother, but then again, I’m a nontraditional heroine.

#1478

I used to hear your voices as clear as if you spoke directly into my ear. It’s not like that now, though. Now it’s as though I’ve entered a room just after one of you has left, with only ringing silence and clenched fists to suggest an argument took place. Now it’s as though I’ve only glimpsed a few words from a letter left carelessly on the desk, and must use them to piece together a life to which I’m no longer privy. I am trying not to mind. Sometimes we cannot communicate the things we need to communicate in straight, bold words. Sometimes we need to speak in half-truths, in unsent letters, in silences and withheld gestures. I am trying to be okay with that. I am trying to let you communicate how you need to communicate, even if I’m rusty with this language.