All of us here had what youâd call prestige, the innate or intrinsic capacity to do something very particular. You could tell by the way my friends sat at the table, one with legs propped up or another very stiff and upright and another looking soulfully out the great windows at the sea like it was any other day, which we had all thought it was. But then I became aware of a certain fact.
This woman, who I try to describe by maybe saying âsorcererâ or âvery capable and evil and with many machines and resourcesâ, had our friend. Our friend who we thought was dead, was actually alive. And in her captivity.
I wanted one very simple thing, for all of us to go across the sea to her building and kill anything that prevented us from doing the most precious thing: reunion.
But I knew she had small machines that could fit anywhere you like. And hear things. Receiving and transmitting. If I spoke openly, we might lose our chance.
I said something like we could go and do the thing that is most precious to us, if it were possible to do such a thing. I said other and similar things. But I could not speak clearly. But with friends, such things should be understood, donât you think?
Even if you do not agree with I on every point under the sun, you would surely agree that regardless of the price of eggs and whether red is pink or pink red, and if naps should be taken after lunch, anyone of the most differential background would agree on one simple commonplace fact: the sorceress has small listening devices that transmit what they hear.
They did not seem to care. I could not get their attention. They broke away from the meeting and my slight but urgent words.
I came outside with them. It was dusk in our toy village on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Orange red which seemed the perfect color for all the wood and clay and brick. This beautiful place we have been given by merit of our prestige. Village gives the wrong impression. It was very nice and modern and clean, but almost like the sets of a stage or a themed park. A kept place, like the ones they preserve for tourists. But it was for us, who had been set apart.
I followed my particular friend trying to speak without seeming to speak. I pulled him into a small structure with the shape of a wooden bird house but vertically long so two people could fit inside. And I said again we could go and do what needs to be done for something so precious to us. What if people did that.
I gripped him by the lapel and whispered, this time in less code than before, because I thought perhaps the listening machines would not be here or not be near enough to hear in a way that ruined everything, but he didnât seem to care. No one cared but the listening machines.
If I could not get my friends to care, I would cease to exist. I started the day thinking I had lost one friend. Now I had lost them all.
I couldnât look at the sea, the sea the color of dead time.
We should sit here in this nice place that has been given to us, shouldnât we, I said. Smiling with eyes damaged. But no one seemed to understand.
the act of caring, against limitless grey metal brutalism, is perhaps the bravest yet stupidest action one can take. to show audaciousness in the way of blotting color on dotted lines meant for black ink, or unraveling the wrong kind of candy in a church sermon, one must wonder why someone would be foolish enough to care. but it is human, the action of gnawing off one’s leg just to limp bleeding away from the bear trap of The Structure. to try and savor what little companionship we have when seasons march on like starving little soldier boys. it will always be worth it, regardless of the shock and seizure associated with becoming something that lacks uniform. a self-damning prophecy.