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R.T.'s journal - a TGOD story
In a journal signed R.T. :
GllChk and I arrived at the village in the afternoon. The sun is strange here, in the rocky, coastal mountains. Never have I felt winds so biting. And it makes me nervous, to see so open and blue the sky! The bright pulse of it hurts my eyes.
In the morning we saw mist, and that brought me some small sense of ease. I should not crave home so, with my privilege to it well forfeited. Still I yearn for the familiar.
The caress of cool, humid air.
The tease of gentle wind at cloth and skin.
The hiss of dancing leaves, and
I am a liar. I am a liar. I am a liar. When I think about what I miss, it is isn’t the way the forest spoke. It isn’t the way the air lay upon me. It isn’t the way the loose earth smelled, or how the trees dove playfully out from the fog when you drew close to them, or how the grass clung and scratched as you twisted in its grasp.
I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to see home, at all. I ran, didn’t I? I ran right away, without ever showing my face. It seems to me it isn’t home I miss, it’s █
stupid. don’t write the name. What will you do if you invoke it? What will you do if you gave back its strength? How could you ever explain that to him?
I get to sleep in a proper bed tonight, so I look forward to that. I’ve never slept in a human-made bed, but I’ve seen pictures, and some of them even look rather nice! I haven’t seen the one I’m going to be in yet, of course, but I am choosing to practice optimism as a conscious act!
In a journal signed R.T. :
My optimism about the bed was misplaced.
Just woke up. Dreamed, again. Slept poorly, kept waking and tossed then slept again, retreading the same dreams. I was deep in the ocean, and I was leading a parade. My brother was there, wearing seashells? My skin was itching, and I think I felt blood when I tried to scratch it away, so I stopped. You know, when you’ve torn yourself up too much already, and you have to leave it alone? It wasn’t something serious, it felt more like that.
...
GllChk and I arrived at the village in the afternoon. The sun is strange here, in the rocky, coastal mountains. Never have I felt winds so biting. And it makes me nervous, to see so open and blue the sky! The bright pulse of it hurts my eyes.
In the morning we saw mist, and that brought me some small sense of ease. I should not crave home so, with my privilege to it well forfeited. Still I yearn for the familiar.
The caress of cool, humid air.
The tease of gentle wind at cloth and skin.
The hiss of dancing leaves, and
I am a liar. I am a liar. I am a liar. When I think about what I miss, it is isn’t the way the forest spoke. It isn’t the way the air lay upon me. It isn’t the way the loose earth smelled, or how the trees dove playfully out from the fog when you drew close to them, or how the grass clung and scratched as you twisted in its grasp.
I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to see home, at all. I ran, didn’t I? I ran right away, without ever showing my face. It seems to me it isn’t home I miss, it’s █
stupid. don’t write the name. What will you do if you invoke it? What will you do if you gave back its strength? How could you ever explain that to him?
I get to sleep in a proper bed tonight, so I look forward to that. I’ve never slept in a human-made bed, but I’ve seen pictures, and some of them even look rather nice! I haven’t seen the one I’m going to be in yet, of course, but I am choosing to practice optimism as a conscious act!
In a journal signed R.T. :
My optimism about the bed was misplaced.
Just woke up. Dreamed, again. Slept poorly, kept waking and tossed then slept again, retreading the same dreams. I was deep in the ocean, and I was leading a parade. My brother was there, wearing seashells? My skin was itching, and I think I felt blood when I tried to scratch it away, so I stopped. You know, when you’ve torn yourself up too much already, and you have to leave it alone? It wasn’t something serious, it felt more like that.
...
