In the absence of real thunder, he’s making his own.
Everyone has something of beauty about them.
Words mean what you want them to mean.
I see his eyes, bright with life adnfire, and I know he won’t stop fighting. Even if it’s the kind of quiet fight on the inside that you can’t always see. And I won’t stop fighting either.
Water’s always moving. It’s never the same.
This is a cruel thing to do because when someone knows your story they know you. And they can hurt you. It’s why I give mine away in pieces, even to Cassia.
So in the middle of all the noise, I point to the sky. I hope he understands what I mean, because I mean so many things: My heart will always fly his name. I won’t go gentle. I’ll find a way to soar life the angels in the stories and I will find him.
For what is the point of having something lovely if you never share it? It would be like having a poem, a beautiful wild poem that no one else has, and burning it.
And it strikes me that this is how writing anything is, really. A collaboration between you who give the words and they who take them and find meaning in them, or put music behind them, or turn them aside because they were not what was needed.
Even if he didn’t live his story, enough of us have lives just like it. So it’s true anyway.
And I’ll tell her that I don’t want my life to be samples and scraps. A taste of everything but a meal of nothing.
Cassia and I sit as near to each other as we can. She leans into me and I keep my arms around her. I don’t fool myself that I hold her together- she does that on her own- but holding her keeps me from flying apart.
Only when I hold onto nothing can I be the best, only then can I be what they expect me to be.
I run for her. I run for them. For me.
Because either way, whichever life I build, has to be built on truth.
And as the Society reminds us, there’s a difference between knowledge and technology. Knowledge doesn’t fail us.
Because once you love, it is gone. You love and you cannot call it back.
Oh yes. His voice has music.
Sometimes paper is just paper, words are just words. Ways to capture the real thing. Don’t be afraid to remember that.
This is the difference between us. I live to sort, he knows how to create.