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ambitious_womanIf I ever write this letter
the pages I could write
but I don't know where to send it
you have vanished
heaven knows where you live
heaven only knows...
If she writes the letter, she thinks, would it ever actually somehow manage to change things? To alter the course of events as they seem contented to be? Even as she cannot be contented with them? If she writes it, marks paper with ink in an echo of how she was marked before? What might that do?
Reinette's brow creases in a frown, for her mind had become a place she does not like. Too many questions one after the other, in a rapid succession. Question after question, after question, with naught a single answer to keep them company. She does not wish to be companion to those questions. They should find someone else to bother with their irksome noise.
Though, truthfully, sometimes it is not the noise that proves bothersome.
It is the quieter questions. The ones that come after that initial stab of hurt, that follows an ache born of five minutes stretching into five hours, and then five days. Each second separated by an odd sort of space, a void that is too well defined to be born of the emptiness she feels.
It is not time itself that Reinette fears. Yes, she has a deeply intimate, quiet sort of understanding with her own body. You cannot argue with someone so fully through the years and not have it. There are more years behind her, than in front, and even that is acceptable. She had gardens and homes, books and art, music and even men to fill the remaining time with.
Every moment measured and filled to a pressured, pleasure-filled sort of perfection. It is a hectic sort of life, but it is hers. It belongs to her -- all, of course, except for that void. Shaped by a man taller than a fireplace, with a mind filled with images of not only what the world could be, but is. It is not ideal, but it is real. Full of stark beauty of the world -- all the worlds -- at their most broken, and barren, even as a unique, unfiltered joy wraps itself around the hardest edges. So much to see, and be, and know. Not only images, but images linked to experience.
What does a smile taste like?
What does a twin sunset smell like?
What does hello, echoing off metal walls so warm they seem alive, feel like.
The time that she had lived within them could be counted in the seconds, but the space they had carved within her was unmistakable. There is nothing that surrounds her that can fill it. No new piece of art, or particularly fine conversations. It belongs to him, even as he does not belong to her. Even as he never will.
Not, mind you, that she would want it to be so.
But still the shadow stands, faintly striped and in possession of a rather singular smile. And the loudest noise of all seems to be the whisper that washes off of it.
Pick a star, any star...
If she writes her answer, instead of speaking it, would that somehow change things? If she leaves her words, carefully chosen, next to a clock that is no longer broken? Would he come then? Find it, and then her? Or must the clock itself cease to work once more? Must she break it herself this time?
Must she admit it matters so much?
"Do you have anything to post," Louis asks the next morning, as he carefully presses their coffee. "You seemed quite occupied at your desk the past few days."
Reinette is started, perhaps because she perhaps never expected for anyone to give notice to the void but herself. But then, Louis always did see more than most gave him credit for. And there was no one that knew her more.
"I think not," she managed, giving an excellent presentation of organizing some texts, freshing acquired. "It is nothing that is finished." Was Louis watching her? Reinette rather imagined that he was. Perhaps closely, even. "And not anything anyone is waiting for."
He is not waiting. He cannot. She understands that.
But it also renews her determination to not wait as well.
She will not be the one left behind.
If I ever write this letter
bitter words it would contain
just an unrequited lover
wishing she had never
spoken your name
had never known your name...
If she had written the letter, she thinks, it would not have mattered. Nothing would have changed. The course of her life would have still continued as seemingly intended, unaltered by a few words, and whatever wisdom they contained.
The void remains unfilled and the shadow just as seductive. Only there is anger now as well. A deeply coiled hurt that is so perfectly masked that even Reinette has trouble recognizing it in her own reflection.
And it is not about promises broken. For after all, She has not only survived as much before, but broken many of her own. Wife. Mother. Daughter. All inherent understandings, promises that she had failed in some form or fashion.
But she had traveled in the countless worlds within his mind, and still to this day they haunted her. And that was where the anger lived. So many countless amazing, endearing, challenging things that Reinette wanted. And they were lifetimes beyond her, even as her own life seemed content to crawl.
How could he show her so much, this letter demanded, and then leave her behind in a world where not one of those possibilities were possible. At least, until Reinette recalled she had seen all of those things without permission. Through her own determination to travel, and explore.
Shamed, those words were swallowed by the very same fireplace that had taken the man as well.
But if I ever write this letter
the truth it would reveal
knowing you brought me pleasure
how I'll often treasure
moments that we knew
the precious, the few.
The letter is written.
And Reinette knows, finally, that the words are as they should be. So much time wasted on the what-could-bes, and the what-might-have-beens. It had never been like Reinette to dwell in the past. She had not counted on those years where she very nearly lost herself to the future. She told the stories to Louis well enough, of childhood companion grown into champion. They passed between them like oddly spun fairly tales, but Reinette knew that he heard it as well. That odd note in her voice whenever the stories concluded. And upward sort of swing that refused to speak of endings. If her tales had been in books, the final page would not have existed. And perhaps it was why the letter had refused to come to fruition as well.
She did not know how to end it.
But it was strange. Even the slow path, when measured in a few remaining days, seemed capable of its own breathless pace. But they were her days, and her story. How had she ever brushed that close to distraction, let whispers and shadows seduce her into forgetting all that she was? Sometimes it is best to speak to shadows directly.
Or at the very least, to write to them.
As she did she imagined stories that belonged to both of them, not one or the other. That one of those impossible possibilities from within his mind might belong to her. That they voices might share space, and conversation, if only once more. It was something more than pleasant, yet just short of pleasure. Perhaps because of the sharp reality that cut its own path just beneath those imaginings.
But he would come back.
That did not seem so very imagined at all.
Perhaps not in five minutes, five years, or even fifty. But when he did, her letter would be there. At any point until just months before, Reinette would have refused to admit that a part of her had always waited for him. Strange, and perhaps appropriate, that when she finally found the courage to do so? She no longer possessed the strength to continue.
That was her story, and as the letter neared completion, she was reminded how much was to be found there as well. True, he has world after world to explore. Yet look how much there was still be known, within herself.
What did ink taste like, as the jar was uncapped and the rich liquid breathed air?
What did the rain smell like? The rain that would surely follow the clouds that were rolling in.
What did goodbye sound like, when the time it would be heard could not be precisely pinpointed?
At the conclusion to her letter, Reinette knew the answer to all of them. Much of her own journey now concluded. The only question that remained was if he would arrive to travel the last remaining steps with her.
If he did? Well, it would be well past reason, would it not?
And if he did not? Perhaps life was not meant to be a reasonless place, after all.
The letter was written, and it would remain behind. With a grace she never quite possessed.
For him, it would wait. Her time for such things had passed.
For him, it would wait, even as she could not.
Le chemin n'a jamais semblé plus lent, et pourtant je crains que j'approche de sa fin. La raison me dit que vous et je suis peu probable de rencontrer encore. Mais je pense que je n'écoutera pas pour raisonner. J'ai vu le monde dans votre tête, et savoir que toutes choses sont possibles. Se dépêcher cependant, mon amour. Mes jours grandissent plus court maintenant, et je suis si très faible. La vitesse de dieu, mon ange solitaire.
the pages I could write
but I don't know where to send it
you have vanished
heaven knows where you live
heaven only knows...
If she writes the letter, she thinks, would it ever actually somehow manage to change things? To alter the course of events as they seem contented to be? Even as she cannot be contented with them? If she writes it, marks paper with ink in an echo of how she was marked before? What might that do?
Reinette's brow creases in a frown, for her mind had become a place she does not like. Too many questions one after the other, in a rapid succession. Question after question, after question, with naught a single answer to keep them company. She does not wish to be companion to those questions. They should find someone else to bother with their irksome noise.
Though, truthfully, sometimes it is not the noise that proves bothersome.
It is the quieter questions. The ones that come after that initial stab of hurt, that follows an ache born of five minutes stretching into five hours, and then five days. Each second separated by an odd sort of space, a void that is too well defined to be born of the emptiness she feels.
It is not time itself that Reinette fears. Yes, she has a deeply intimate, quiet sort of understanding with her own body. You cannot argue with someone so fully through the years and not have it. There are more years behind her, than in front, and even that is acceptable. She had gardens and homes, books and art, music and even men to fill the remaining time with.
Every moment measured and filled to a pressured, pleasure-filled sort of perfection. It is a hectic sort of life, but it is hers. It belongs to her -- all, of course, except for that void. Shaped by a man taller than a fireplace, with a mind filled with images of not only what the world could be, but is. It is not ideal, but it is real. Full of stark beauty of the world -- all the worlds -- at their most broken, and barren, even as a unique, unfiltered joy wraps itself around the hardest edges. So much to see, and be, and know. Not only images, but images linked to experience.
What does a smile taste like?
What does a twin sunset smell like?
What does hello, echoing off metal walls so warm they seem alive, feel like.
The time that she had lived within them could be counted in the seconds, but the space they had carved within her was unmistakable. There is nothing that surrounds her that can fill it. No new piece of art, or particularly fine conversations. It belongs to him, even as he does not belong to her. Even as he never will.
Not, mind you, that she would want it to be so.
But still the shadow stands, faintly striped and in possession of a rather singular smile. And the loudest noise of all seems to be the whisper that washes off of it.
Pick a star, any star...
If she writes her answer, instead of speaking it, would that somehow change things? If she leaves her words, carefully chosen, next to a clock that is no longer broken? Would he come then? Find it, and then her? Or must the clock itself cease to work once more? Must she break it herself this time?
Must she admit it matters so much?
"Do you have anything to post," Louis asks the next morning, as he carefully presses their coffee. "You seemed quite occupied at your desk the past few days."
Reinette is started, perhaps because she perhaps never expected for anyone to give notice to the void but herself. But then, Louis always did see more than most gave him credit for. And there was no one that knew her more.
"I think not," she managed, giving an excellent presentation of organizing some texts, freshing acquired. "It is nothing that is finished." Was Louis watching her? Reinette rather imagined that he was. Perhaps closely, even. "And not anything anyone is waiting for."
He is not waiting. He cannot. She understands that.
But it also renews her determination to not wait as well.
She will not be the one left behind.
If I ever write this letter
bitter words it would contain
just an unrequited lover
wishing she had never
spoken your name
had never known your name...
If she had written the letter, she thinks, it would not have mattered. Nothing would have changed. The course of her life would have still continued as seemingly intended, unaltered by a few words, and whatever wisdom they contained.
The void remains unfilled and the shadow just as seductive. Only there is anger now as well. A deeply coiled hurt that is so perfectly masked that even Reinette has trouble recognizing it in her own reflection.
And it is not about promises broken. For after all, She has not only survived as much before, but broken many of her own. Wife. Mother. Daughter. All inherent understandings, promises that she had failed in some form or fashion.
But she had traveled in the countless worlds within his mind, and still to this day they haunted her. And that was where the anger lived. So many countless amazing, endearing, challenging things that Reinette wanted. And they were lifetimes beyond her, even as her own life seemed content to crawl.
How could he show her so much, this letter demanded, and then leave her behind in a world where not one of those possibilities were possible. At least, until Reinette recalled she had seen all of those things without permission. Through her own determination to travel, and explore.
Shamed, those words were swallowed by the very same fireplace that had taken the man as well.
But if I ever write this letter
the truth it would reveal
knowing you brought me pleasure
how I'll often treasure
moments that we knew
the precious, the few.
The letter is written.
And Reinette knows, finally, that the words are as they should be. So much time wasted on the what-could-bes, and the what-might-have-beens. It had never been like Reinette to dwell in the past. She had not counted on those years where she very nearly lost herself to the future. She told the stories to Louis well enough, of childhood companion grown into champion. They passed between them like oddly spun fairly tales, but Reinette knew that he heard it as well. That odd note in her voice whenever the stories concluded. And upward sort of swing that refused to speak of endings. If her tales had been in books, the final page would not have existed. And perhaps it was why the letter had refused to come to fruition as well.
She did not know how to end it.
But it was strange. Even the slow path, when measured in a few remaining days, seemed capable of its own breathless pace. But they were her days, and her story. How had she ever brushed that close to distraction, let whispers and shadows seduce her into forgetting all that she was? Sometimes it is best to speak to shadows directly.
Or at the very least, to write to them.
As she did she imagined stories that belonged to both of them, not one or the other. That one of those impossible possibilities from within his mind might belong to her. That they voices might share space, and conversation, if only once more. It was something more than pleasant, yet just short of pleasure. Perhaps because of the sharp reality that cut its own path just beneath those imaginings.
But he would come back.
That did not seem so very imagined at all.
Perhaps not in five minutes, five years, or even fifty. But when he did, her letter would be there. At any point until just months before, Reinette would have refused to admit that a part of her had always waited for him. Strange, and perhaps appropriate, that when she finally found the courage to do so? She no longer possessed the strength to continue.
That was her story, and as the letter neared completion, she was reminded how much was to be found there as well. True, he has world after world to explore. Yet look how much there was still be known, within herself.
What did ink taste like, as the jar was uncapped and the rich liquid breathed air?
What did the rain smell like? The rain that would surely follow the clouds that were rolling in.
What did goodbye sound like, when the time it would be heard could not be precisely pinpointed?
At the conclusion to her letter, Reinette knew the answer to all of them. Much of her own journey now concluded. The only question that remained was if he would arrive to travel the last remaining steps with her.
If he did? Well, it would be well past reason, would it not?
And if he did not? Perhaps life was not meant to be a reasonless place, after all.
The letter was written, and it would remain behind. With a grace she never quite possessed.
For him, it would wait. Her time for such things had passed.
For him, it would wait, even as she could not.
Le chemin n'a jamais semblé plus lent, et pourtant je crains que j'approche de sa fin. La raison me dit que vous et je suis peu probable de rencontrer encore. Mais je pense que je n'écoutera pas pour raisonner. J'ai vu le monde dans votre tête, et savoir que toutes choses sont possibles. Se dépêcher cependant, mon amour. Mes jours grandissent plus court maintenant, et je suis si très faible. La vitesse de dieu, mon ange solitaire.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 04:10 am (UTC)You did this brilliantly, love. I know how hard it was and how perfect you wanted it to be and I think you achieved it in marvelous layers.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:54 am (UTC)That you.
*hugs tightly*
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 04:31 am (UTC)You always amaze me.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-27 03:06 am (UTC)