As Sunday Softly Dies

I was tired. So tired. The sky was too; a pale, frigid shade that was less blue than white. 

Barely. It was the definition of "barely."

Barely alive. Barely blue. It was dying. The dying of the light.

I thought suddenly that this must be what death feels like: a cold, tired sunset on the first Sunday of October. 

Some deaths, anyway: the fading away kind. The slow, somber, slipping kind. The icy chill draping down on a burnt forest kind. The pensive, not-altogether-unpleasant-but-sad-in-a-way-too kind. 

Sad like barely blue October twilight. Barely blue, barely October, barely twilight. I thought of tugging on threadbare mittens over bare hands. A sadness so lovely it could only be described in that way: barely-blue-October-twilight. Another brand new emotion to add to my list. How could everything familiar feel so different? Every moment, a new feeling.

On Pain: A Hobbit-Riddled Understanding

I thought about it many times, but didn't actually cry until the credits.

 "Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away

Safe in my arms

You're only sleeping"

That stupid song always made me cry.

I hate this song, I thought bitterly. But I love it. I hate it and love it and hate loving it and love hating it. This whole movie— this whole idea, hobbits and rings and kings and shires, is like that.

I scuttled upstairs, wiping away the tears only so my eyes could replenish with fresh ones.

I curled on the floor of my four-by-four feet library, tears writhing behind my eyes, unable to come out and unable to stay in. I sat and lay in my existential pain. No— it wasn't that. It was pain. But—

It was human pain. The most raw, unanalyzed, human pain I'd ever felt. It was real. It was the pain of so many people— without being the pain of anybody that I could attach appraisal to, or try to fix. It was pain that I had to just sit in and experience without being able to even try and fix it. That was the beauty of it. I loved it. But it was pain. And in a way, I hated it.

Above all things, it hurt. It hurt in a way that shouldn't be understood, shouldn't even be thought about. Only experienced, only lived through. It hurt in a way that things hurt when you're learning, and you're glad, but you're mourning something too.

I thought about the ring. I thought about Sméagol. I thought about the battles, the bravery, the fear, the light and dark of the war for Middle Earth. I thought about Aragorn. I thought about rebuilding, about hope and love. But most of all, I thought about Sam, and about Frodo. About what it'd be like to lose your best friend without warning. More than your friend— your partner in survival. The only person in the world who might really understand you, and all you've gone through. To have him leave, after all that, and to try to pick up the threads of an old life. Sam always managed to do these kind of things Frodo couldn't. Sam was able to keep moving. Frodo had been cut— in every way— too deep. I thought about coming home and feeling empty. Not that home is empty, but you're empty, and you can't belong in a full place anymore. I thought about what Frodo really was; what kind of life he'd lived. It really ought to have been called "The Tragedy of Frodo." His life had been wanting adventure, and then it had been having unwanted things thrust upon him, and then it had been wanting to save his home, and then it had been just wanting it all to be over. Unfulfilled. Empty. But full, in a way. Full of pain and fear and exhaustion and wanting. Full of humanity. Full of courage and strength and saving Middle Earth. What a strange and beautiful and pained little thing Frodo was. And what pain he brought me.

Eventually, as with all things, it passed. My mind slipped into other things— story ideas, thoughts of other books, of other times. My headache subsided. I was growing aware of how uncomfortable the position I'd chosen to lay in was.

I got up. I went to my bed and sat. I breathed. I dried my tears.

There was a knock at the door.

Mom came in. "Are you okay?"

I smiled away from her, out the window. "I am now."

"You didn't each your chicken dinos."

"After watching Lord of the Rings, I... I just need some time. I'm okay now."

Mom leaned against the door handle with concern, trying to find my eyes, hidden below the edge of the bunk bed. "The movie upset you that much?"

"It's... It's hard to explain."

"Okay. Are you going to come down at some point?"

"I'll be down in a minute."

And so, the normalcy began to creep back in. Where pain had stabbed and sliced, understanding and peace began to soothe and bind. But Pain hadn't left. Only shape-shifted, evolved. It was old and wise now, and quiet. Gone was the rocking, bawling child, and in its stead, Pain sat cooly, watching the stars with its sword across its lap. Now was a time for healing.

You're welcome, Pain tells me quietly. Now you can understand.

"It's Hard Being Me," in Three Acts- Act III (Let It Be)

Disclaimer: Please, if it's not too much trouble, keep in mind that this is a creative platform. I deal in humans and words. Not politics.

Act III: Let It Be

I ran toward the back porch, tears lapping my cheeks and grass lapping my toes. Grandpa was rocking pensively. 

"Grandpa, I don't know what to do!"

Grandpa roused himself, standing at the call to action.

"Just tell me who to lick, and I'll lick 'em!"

"What? No-- it's nothing like that, it's— it's the election!" I wailed.

"Election? What election? The election that's not for year?"

"Yes! I've tried listening to debates and I just can't bear it! All these angry hearts, just yelling. Nothing's impartial— I guess that's impossible. It's all the screaming of desperate fears and desires— I mean deep, not directly, of course, but there. And what can I possibly do to help? I want to save the world. But I'm a mere molecule of dust— I don't even make a dent! I am so helpless— and if I can't fix it all, I lose the energy to even try to fix some of it. But they— Jack and Thomas— they swear I must. I must vote. And so— I shall. But I know nothing, Grandpa! How am I to know what's the right thing to do? How am I to pick the next leader of the free world— the next great mover of global history? Help me, Grandpa! What do I do?"

I looked up at him miserably, panting.

Grandpa stared at me for exactly two seconds before bursting out in laughter.

"Jane, Jane, Jane my darling, how long has it been your job to keep whole world spinning?"

I laughed helplessly. He opened his arms, grinning, and beckoned me to him. I scampered up the steps and obliged. 

"My dear, you take yourself much too seriously," he whispered, smoothing down my hair.

"Are you saying I'm not to vote?"

"No, of course, vote. By all means, vote."

"But then how do I know which is the right one to pick?"

"You won't know. You just pick. That's all any of us can do. That's all we need to do. The Great Director's got this show covered."

I inhaled, biting my lip, and gazed out over the field. I saw the leaves shivering and shimmering on the great oak. I saw tufts of cloud balancing listlessly on the breeze. I saw a monarch dancing across the field. I didn't help with any of that. 

But that squash over there— those great juicy orange things that soon Grandma will cook with her special recipe for us to savor and sigh over— that I did vote on. I helped plant it. Look how well that had turned out.

I exhaled, and allowed my lips the liberty of a small upward curve. I gave Grandpa one more squeeze.

"Okay."

"It's Hard Being Me," in Three Acts- Act II (Servitude Inglorious)

Disclaimer: Please, if it's not too much trouble, keep in mind that this is a creative platform. I deal in humans and words. Not politics.

Act II: Servitude Inglorious

"So what, you're just going to give up on them?"

She choked over the shutter. "I'm not giving up, Thomas—"

"You are. That's what you do every time you lose control over something. It's what you're doing now."

She sat down on the log— more like tripped backward and fell on it. She rubbed her face, but it didn't do much good, just smeared the tears around.

"My... my vote doesn't even count, Thomas. None of ours do. This is a republic."

She looked up because he stopped pacing. Whenever he stopped moving, danger was coming.

"They don't count? Two hundred plus years of freedom don't mean anything at all?"

She tried to form a reply but he snarled before she could, "You're saying people have died and are dying in uniform for nothing? Democracy is all just some illusion?"

"No— that's not what I—" She stood, reaching out to him, a little desperate. "Listen—"

"You listen. People have fought and died to protect the freedoms you wallow in. You've never known any different. You can't understand what it's like to live in any other kind of society. People are dying right now so that you get to fill out that stupid little piece of paper. I won't let you give up on them. I don't care if you feel like you're doing any good or not. I'm not letting you give up just because you don't have an absolute grasp on the situation. Not this time. You're checking a box. I don't care which one. But you're doing it. Because this is a matter of perpetuating an institution. What happens if everybody decides to give up like you? No one votes? ...Any trace of democracy? All gone. You're going to vote if I have to force you there at sword point."

"Thomas—" 

He pushed past her and Jane couldn't even turn and watch her brother go. She just sat back on the log and caught her face in her hands.

"It's Hard Being Me," in Three Acts- Act I (Nothing Perfect)

Disclaimer: Please, if it's not too much trouble, keep in mind that this is a creative platform. I deal in humans and words. Not politics.

Act I: Nothing Perfect

He looked at her. "What do you think?"

She shook her head. 

"What?"

"Ignoramooses have no right to speak on such matters," she said evenly, looking him dead in the eye, like something deep inside her was smirking at him.

"What?"

"I have not earned it."

"You haven't earned what?" he huffed, apparently growing even more impatient, if that was possible.

She pressed her lips together and studied him a moment. "The right to speak about politics."

"How do you mean?" he demanded.

She exhaled. "If one day, I should decide to go to college and work hard and study politics and earn a political science degree and work in government, then, and only then, will I have gained enough knowledge and insight to not be an ignoramoose about politics. And then—and only then— will I have earned the right to speak with any degree of authority in matters of politics. Until then, I shall write my thoughts in my journals, and I will cry them to the Lord, but I will not speak my mind about politics, for what mind is it, but a barren one— one of passions, not thoughts?"

"But democracy! Free speech! What of these?"

"What of them?"

"You have a right to them, you know."

"A right before the eyes of the Constitution. Not a right before the eyes of Truth."

"What are you trying to say about the Constitution?"

"That is was a document made by man, to govern man. By flawed and broken, to govern flawed and broken. Successful? So far, very. But perfect? Never."

"But what about your duty to your countrymen? Is it not your obligation to participate in law-making? In election?"

"To what point and purpose, Jack? If I do not understand the systems I am voting to change or to maintain, what good can I possibly do? I have just the chance of a lottery— maybe I'll hit the right number, maybe I won't. I'm shooting blind. I won't even be making decisions so much as just rolling dice, hoping to get lucky."

"But you're more educated than half— no, the majority— of the voting public. If you're not qualified to vote, who is?"

"Precisely. And there you have a democracy."

"Oh, so now you're against democracy, too?"

"I'm not qualified to be against anything."

"You're rather infuriating at times, you know that?"

Jack wasn't kidding and Jane knew it. And it hurt. Of course she knew she was infuriating when it came to politics. That was precisely why she tried to stay out of them. But somehow someone always managed to pull her back in. Somebody always had the insatiable desire to be infuriated.

"What I mean," said Jane quietly, "is that government all comes down to personal responsibility— the responsibility of each singular person. There will always be people committing wrongs. And everyone will eventually commit wrong. It's in our blood, in our DNA. And no government, no legal system can possibly stop a person determined to do wrong. What kept you from not robbing a bank today? Not the fear of imprisonment, retribution— no, simply the fact that you had no inclination to do so. Whether you're talking about a lowly citizen or a government official, there is always and forever the potentiality that they will seek to do wrong. That they will backfire against the system. There is no possible 'ideal' or 'perfect' government. Talking politics is always 'how can we make the best of what we've got?' And that's why we don't get along, politics and I. Because I cooperate with ideals. With dream castles and dream societies and dream people who obey my every whim, who obligingly—gladly— slip into my ideals, my ideas of perfection. I am not a 'practical' creature, Jack, and I never was. Don't try to shove that hat on me now. It won't fit."

Jack stared at her a long time, wheels turning in his skull.

"I'm not sorry I asked," he said much more softly than Jane expected, "but I am still sorry you won't vote."

Jane swallowed down a lump in her throat and gazed off into the distance. "So am I."

Jack would never know how excruciatingly true that statement was, how deeply she felt it. But he loved her, and that was enough.