Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Excerpts Again

"You fools! The innocent perished, while you, bastards of coin and purchased flesh, live in chains of freedom that bind you more fast to a cold death than those same cords could ever bind him.


"Your fathers whored to the Zargos, and gave up my country to be a whore to them. Now have you whored yourselves to the enemy again, and turned us over so the Zargos may whore away our lives. So be it, you may have your whores and be your whores—until the whore chokes on her own blood, damned to fall deep into the Pit of Scorca.


"Bastards, all, and you will not see me again till the blood you shed has been unspilt. I will leave you to the wiles of your lover till she tires of you, a time not unsoon. Then will she send you, bleeding, to the teeth of night. They have asked me if I will kill you, but I said to them only this: 'No, for the blood that would land upon my dagger would be worth more than the lives they own.' Thus it is, and thus your whoring has brought you. So it will prove that your incest be your own undoing."


-Tallidwr ap Dyllanwr, to the Council of the Seven Lords of Carnwntir, 1246 C.C. (Capel Cerig)

Saturday, 26 March 2011

Hole in One

A hole in anything can be filled only with something the size of the hole. Smaller, and it is useless. Larger, and it will tear the original. So a heart, once made holey, must be repaired only with that which fits perfectly. And perfect fits, from clothes to heaven-made matches, are as few and far between as they sound in this imperfect place we suffer to dwell. I know that. Really, I do.


So why do I expect the hole to go away on its own?


Weary with Toil

I haste me to my bed.

Well, this evening, anyway. My weeks pass with reckless abandon, day into day as blinks the eye. Does time, when rote, begin to hasten its pace and so lessen the chore of boredom on sad minds? Or is it that with age it speeds on ever more and more quickly, and so I will be an old man before I have felt young? Can the wanting of time's passage bring it, or is time our master, and we useless minions in a flood of what-happens-ings and has-happened-ings? Will life, once it has reached the place for which I wait and long for, pause so that I may breathe a while and sip, even once, or more, that tasteful and sweet nectar of life's faint and all-too-easily-dulled pleasures? What hope might I have, or make, for the future that appears ever more bright than the lifeless life I lead from now till September's bright midday? Will it be a hope that every week and day be distinct from each other in that other-time, or must I grin and bear the bitter truth, if it be so, that once reached, that plateau will as easily be passed over, into something less looked-forward-to, and so fade in a breath my brief span of life?

I do not know; I can say less so. But I wonder, and think; and believe. But still, I will not say it.