Goddammit, not this guy again. Every time I'm wandering through my head just minding my own business and trying to have a good time, this fucker shows up. Just be cool. You didn't hear him.
I need to let go of my seven year marriage, but there is an even bigger and dearer part of me to let go of; I need to let go of the fear. The man that was in that bar was a real man, a real part of me, a part of me that I have known for 20 years or more, a part of me that I have saved and protected even as I have periodically hated that man. That part of me that sneaks around in the night, that hides his real desires even from himself, that man that needs anonymity and shadows, not light and intimacy. That man that fights and resists love.
Half-hidden by shadow and starlight, the paths of the Floating Island at night form a labyrinth that is neither straightforward, nor entirely real. You attempt to retrace the path you followed out to the Garden, without success. Many times, you feel that you're starting to recognize the terrain around you -- and just as many times, you take a step into reverie instead of a step towards home.
I've always wanted to learn French. It's not a very useful skill, I'll grant you. If I wanted to learn a language I'd be much better off learning Spanish or Mandarin but there's something about French that keeps calling to me. Of course, I've never had a single lesson of French, having taken the far more useless Latin in high school (sure, I can't talk to anyone but I can recite Caesar's report on Gaul. Did you know it's divided into three parts?).
Of course, I doubt I'm going to be able to teach myself French, but I thought why not give a try. So I've got a copy of Rosetta Stone to see if it can help me with my learnding. It's bound to be better than this:
One evening, you find yourself wandering the island, full of a strange restless energy, too tired to concentrate but too wound up to relax.
Walking in twilight, studying the moving shadows within the Savage Garden, you catch sight of a spectre humming to himself, whispering an unearthly melody audible only underneath rustling leaves, only between drops of rain.
As you listen, you hear fragments of a story you will never be quite able to piece together. Some of it comes in words, some of it appears in your mind as pictures - but each picture you grab ahold of takes you to another place entirely. Nightfall brings you back from the land of the story just in the nick of time. The ghost, you realize, is long gone.

And to think, some of my family thought it'd never happen. 




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