The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

The Pieces

Sparrow, how right you were: I find myself caring, a lot.   And caring, again, is the source of suffering. I think Ashley said her teacher's said as much, in some distant ring.

The pieces, as they are:

Ariel is a surrender. For all her bluster, she has neither the strength nor the charm to win an election. Perhaps on the back of sheer wealth, she could do something... But wealth alone is never enough.

Sephidra is a tyranny. A good woman, yes. I do think she'd make a decent Legate and defend important things. As ever, our division remains on whether to lick the Sultan's boot, though. If she tried to do actual good, she'd be removed in an instant, for what is wanted is the seat for the Purple. Had the purple candidate been Hu Prak, perhaps - the man's removal would've been a scandal. But Sephidra? Sephidra will fold. All Legates fold, all too often. 

And Domhnall is a hindrance handsome idiot idealistic broken beautifulhimself. He talks of his time in office in a way that is painful, when one knows what he's hidden, what he's done, the ways he stabbed hi. He talks of his own election as though did it all by himself, as though he rescued our League from obscurity... I wish I could say it hurts on the grounds of being un-Asterabadian, alone. I want the League of White to win, but I keep feeling these two months have broken him. He is a walking contradicton, a walking hypocresy.

I guess so are we all, when we try to do something with politics.

Still, is a selfish part of me that just wants... Just wants him to do something else, for his own good. Meet more people, get out of the city more often, experience more things. And another part which is terrified at the idea of two Purples Legates in the Pyramid.

I wish I could just shrug and not care, once more.

Sadly, I do not think I can just flip a coin, this time.

[Don Nadie]

A Series of Serious Proposals Towards the Improvement of Our Polity, the Enrichment of our Political System and the Development of Justice and Democracy in the City of Ephia's Well

1- Substitute every word with "HISSS" and "MELEK". (An enrichment of political discourse, would open diplomatic venues with the Sibilant)

2- Land the Sublime Terrace onto the Pyramid and crush it. Legates become the Court's jesters. (Too unradical a change, except for the landing)

3- A game of die between the Grandmaster, Q'tolip and the Bey. The winner just gets to do whatever they want with the People. (Pros: saves us Assemblies, achieves similar results, quicker. Cons: It'd take a seven-month debate to decide which game of die to play)

4- Resurrect Ibtihal (How bad could it be? Ask the corpse-kissers.)

5- Are we sure the Tormented wouldn't be wiser leaders of our humble polity in these times of danger and tribulation, with their vast experience in killing sultans and enduring through centuries? Just because they are horrifying monsters with long fangs, drippling with oily substances and built with cursed magics doesn't mean they can't offer us constructive advice.

6- Kyprosianism: Revisiting an old classic.

7- How about we just contaminate all water supply with the Drink and get so Drinkrushed we end up having some weird communal orgy/enlightened debate in the Assembly?

8- Orentid remnants: how to turn into rats, so our tribulations can at long last end. (Ask Kha'esh's evidently evil vizier)

9- General, bloddy revolution.

10- A boat to Alkab for literally every single refugee, worker, worminger, etc. Leave the rest to fight over the ashes.

[Don Nadie]

Remaining

You can learn a lot, I feel, by the company a man keeps, by the choices he makes, and by how he owns up to them. The more I hear of that woman growing closer to him, the more I read transcripts of her support in the Bellows, the more convinced I become that he is, once again, mistaking the pursuit of power with the pursuit of the things you can do with power.

"Then we started talking about the Banafsian refugees", she said.
"And things got cruel".

We were in my office, surrounded by translations upon translations.
Took me a moment, and some effort, to pry my eyes off of the mannuscript.
(What relief there is in dead words, in a way)
(Not because they are more certain, but because they are less urgent)

"How so?", I asked, fearing the answer.
"They mocked our efforts to guide refugees"
I clicked my tongue.
"Mae", she added, "has taken to tittering".
"I suppose it's contagious".

Theatrics, apparently. That was his excuse for them.
My poor, beautiful friend. How little he knows of performance.

Taking stands against civilian organizations because the Banda Rossa and the Tower dissaprove. Supporters vociferously arguing against refugee outreach efforts because it was a plan by a Legate of the Purple. The pursuit of power put above the pursuit of goals. And throughout, the stink of hypocresy, reeking. Every attempt at projecting strength turns away another supporter.

I think of Banana Bread, of Gold Dust. How can one bear a single word against efforts to make up for that? How can one accept that, from one's supporters? I keep being reminded of what someone said to me, when I was  anew arrival, about how some people will use the charitable appearance of the Lillies as cover for their own goals. Can he not see that woman reeks? That she would kill every refugee, if paid enough?

"In a way, I understand him", she said.
Old friend. Towering and calm, as (almost) ever.
"He has a Vision, and doesn't want to compromise it"

Kinder words than what he has for her, I realized.
Sincere empathy? A calculation, perhaps?
Knowing my feelings, knowing that insult would turn me away?
Empathy, I think. I hope. She's still a friend.
Though if it was feigned, it'd still show better sense for politics.

I find myself thinking of his election. I remember, hours upon hours gathering funds and selling things and wheeling and dealing. Convincing every Balladeer, convincing every undecided. Studying the list of voters as though it held the key to the Giant's dissapearance. So much effort, it took, to get him elected. I was running on idealism and coffee alone. So eager to see him do good.

I feel, in the pit of my stomach, that he's going to sell us to the Rossa, this time. Like he sold me to the Tower.

"Have you talked to him about this?", she asked.
"About how he has changed?"

Her questions are, sadly, pointier than her spear.
Her eyes so piercing, her soul so clean.
Oathsworn, how I envy them. Their beautiful, shimmering  certainty

"Could you see yourself remaining with him, as he is now?"

[Don Nadie]

Into the Clouds

[This entry seems to be a poem. Those familiar may recognize Alejandro's Into the Clouds, which he wrote for the (successful) election of Domhnall Guivarch as Legate of Ephia's Well. The verses, however, have been written scattered over the page. It stinks of mizzar.]

When you' re feeling
                                gloomy, your gaze to the floor,
                  seems you cannot hope either
                                                         better or more.
                                    you the stars whisper by
      And high up above
weaving                                      you rely...?
             your grim fate, on who can

And... Yet...
                                                           up above!
   Lift thine saddened                clouds     
                               gaze to the             put off!
           They part                     we cannot
                            for a future         
                    worst of the
 Even in the                    days we can tell
                    together, we all                             Well!
                                         can make better our
                                                                         might!
                your greatness,                       with
Aspire to                        raise your voice 
             Remember to sp                            your right!
                                     eak: it was always
                     igh up the crest
      Raise h                              of the falcon so White!
the Lilies
               are there,
                            read
                                   y to
                                         join
                                               your

                       flight!     

Right out of the station, we crossed.
A brief discussion, a disagreement.

"You have a kind heart", she said.
"And you seem pained"
Her eyes were kindly.
(I couldn't bear to look into them.)
"Is this what this city does to kind-hearted people?"

It was short, our conversation. Before all else.
                  Betrayal and hypocresy were so bitter, I had to indulge.

                        Because the Clouds are sweet.
                                And it was only once, so its fine.

                           It was only once,
                                                  so I don't have a problem.

[Don Nadie]

Twice

[Another entry with flowy, uneven calligraphy... And with a page which stinks of mizzar]

So it goes, with betrayal. The first time, for him, as he wanted. The second, for him, against his wishes. At some point, I 'll need to tell him. As soon as we're alone, I suppose... Which is to say, it'll take a while.

"Whomever wins", I whispered, as we waited,
(I was leaning on the bar, drinking)
(That cursed amulet, which doesnt let me get drunk)
"Whomever wins, we have lost"
(Two candidates, so close)
(What horrid concessions did each make, to win?)

And then the announcement, the reveal, the mixture of joy and dread. Feelings for the League and for him too entangle to really be able to separate them alltogether. A toast, perhaps, to something. I don't think anyone was terribly enthusiastic.

Ibn Ghalish, though. That man. He came to the Krak right after the results were announced, a bloodthirsty grin in his lips. He spoke of remembering crimes, of making people pay, of murder and murder and murder. As though nobody had anything else in their minds, but murder.

"Cheer up, Magistrate, Guivarch will remember!"
"Every single obstacle", he seethed,
"Every single traitor."

I tried to remind myself, for I'd heard these threats before; I had been shaken before, by these promises. But then I had his promise, and that was enough to steel myself. I tried to remember that Ibn Ghalish's wishes hadn't come to pass... But partly, they had. And what little had taken place was already dreadful enough...

I felt increasingly anxious, increasingly fidgety, increasingly unable to stand there, with all the thoughts clustering and clustering, the maybes and the perhaps and the shoulds and shouldn'ts. So I just went back to my room, closed the door, delved deep into the clouds, into the clouds, into the clouds... What peace there is, into the clouds...

...And it's only twice...           
           ...So I don't have a problem...

[Don Nadie]

A Mission

I don't know what curiosity I had awakened in her.
But she asked to speak, and I obliged.
A small trip to Hasheema's Hope, a falafel to enjoy.

"What do you believe in?", she asked.
I paused. Whatever does such a question mean?
"I believe in people", I said, "I believe in stories"

I do not know what was going through her head.
What was, perhaps, her agenda. To know me?
To see whether I was a cynic? Whether I was in pain?

"Fear of dissapointment", she explained,
"Has created every cynic the world has ever seen."
I smirked. "We all are dissapointed, eventually. We all dissapoint."
The back of my hand itched, the scarf felt unevenly set on my shoulders.
"Circumstances force upon us the betrayal of promises"
"The breaking of hearts".

Arround us refugees, tired and weary.
Whispering, too exhausted to be noisy.
The Well, full to the brim with pain, with suffering, with abandonment.
So common, so thorough, it is but background music.

"I was a Balladeer for a long time, señora mia".
Her brow furrowed. Surprise, I imagine, that I could leave?
"And if anything defines the Balladeers, it is the highest ideals..."
"And the most constant betrayal of them."
She seemed puzzled, uncertain.
"We... They", I corrected myself, "aspire to be heroes"
"and must make peace with villains".

The back of my hand itched, my skin itched.
Just a bit, just enough. To remind me what soothes it.
Was I being dramatic? Was I being too honest?
(I had forgotten how it feels, when I am out of the clouds.)
(How I am so eerily aware of everything arround me.)

"What you speak of, signor, is an artist's philosophy"
We had turned to the matter of the heart.
To its truth, beating; to its hunger, eager.
"I am not sure one can consistently strive for good", she said.
"if one ever follows an artist's philosophy".

I smiled, bitterly. Perhaps she was right.
Had I not betrayed many of my convictions, for him?
Had I not betrayed him, too? Because the heart drummed and drummed.
And betrayal felt like the best alternative.
And somehow we were whispering about love, now.
And about how evil may sprout from it, too.

"I have taken much of your time, signor, so let me finish with one question"
Her expression was serene, empathetic.
(Who was this woman, even? So interested in my heart?)
"Go ahead", I said.
She nodded, grateful. Then, she spoke. All the weight of an ocean, within her.
"Do you believe there is love that never dissapoints?"

I paused. (Wheel above, I wanted only to go into the clouds)
(A third time is fine, a third time is still not a problem)
(Once a day is perfectly within control)
I realized I had paused way too long.

"Yes", I said.

A smile began flickering in her lips.
Happy? What for? Why did she care?

"Some people", I added, "die before they can dissapoint"
(Some people. Not me.)

And a smile died, just as quickly.
She took a moment to ponder, she stood.
Serenity and peace drawed back into her expression.
Serenity and peace, as practiced as my playfulness.

"I believe", she said, "I have my mission".

[Don Nadie]

Man

It was a trip, it was an experience. The waves, how they cleansed my mood. I was first holding it together, ever-so slightly clouded. Smile painted on my lips, cheer painted on my actions, delighted music for my companions. But as the waves rang and rang the mask became the truth... As if often does.

(How the waves cleanse. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that, when I open them, I'll be back home By the shore. Caring for the goats.)

Regardless, Il Modo was impressive - I couldn't believe there existed cities that big. There was so much art, so much beauty accumulated, such grandeur. But nothing could've prepared me for the Dome of Man.

When I entered, it seemed magnificent and beautiful, yes. A grand temple, the likes of which I had never seen, yes. But as I moved forward through the chanting faithful, as I walked further and further in, in a daze... I saw how the building climbed higher and higher...

And then I gazed up.

Paintings. Paintings like one cannot imagine or remember. I have tried to recall their images, their traces, and I come empty - too magnificent, I feel, to hold in one's weak mind. I feel they are the kind of thing one can either see in person... Or dream about.

They were history, made of color.
They were faith, made of line.
They were love. So much love.
They were so much effort.
They were Holy.

I watched them with a shiver in my spine, with tears almost coming to my eyes. For a moment I think I understood something special. About Art, about the Divine, about reaching out into the darkness with such eager, seeking, desperate love... And I thought about the faith of the Dome, the faith on Man. I thought that this was not built by grand colossi or legends, but by people. It was just a moment, but a moment is forever.

[This entire paragraph has been crossed out and excissed, only a few fragmentary sentences still legible through the blobs of ink] Once out, I must admit, Reason reared its ugly head with reflection. [...] Herbert Cornwallis, perhaps a case one may [...] And of course, in relation to the djinni's consump[...] I thought of the [...] ributes of Colos[...] I wondered if there is something to be said for the Faith of t[...] Interroganti, one wond [...] [When the writing continues, there is something forced about its light tone, and its silliness] And anyways, silly reflections aside, it was an enjoyable trip.

Great Art, specially, art everywhere in the city. Or, at least, in the part of the city we got to see. Besides the Dome, there were so many statues, and decorations on rooftops, and engravings... I think one of the best, for instance, was the incredible statue of a man, with an absolutely amazing behind. I felt, I will admit, a bit jealous.

And now there is one more tiny piece of art in Il Modo: I gave the city a Hidden Poem. One I rather like, with reference to Fornato, even!

My work, joining the great works of Man! Isn't that something?

[Don Nadie]

Custody

My eyes were closed. I felt but the smell.
My office's dust, the scent of paper and ink.
Smoke and burnt candles and old secrets and lonely nights.
The sickly-sweet scent of It, poured.
And in my hands, his Cup.

"You don't need him, or anyone", he said.
"You need only to believe in yourself"
His lips were tender, on my brow.
His words, warm in my ears.
"And in the Dakhwar", he added, softly.

So I opened my eyes, saw his once more.
His gaze. It was stern, and firm, and loving.
(Loving, despite all the heartbreak)
I did my best to hold it. What did my own eyes show?

"I will hold onto it", I promised.
I gazed at his Cup, in my hands.
Shimmering silver, full to the brim.
"But do return", I added.

* And then I lifted the Cup * and I smelled the sweetness of Mystery and of Revelation and * I allowed myself, I had wanted for so long and endured but * Deep, I Drank of its roots * There it was the Drinkrush of wasiswillbe drumming with every heartbeat * Did I feel it was owed? Did I wanted or did I just follow the path he'd drawn with his kiss * I felt for a moment that this was a mistake, a mistake that I wanted to make so badly I * I sawseewillsee deep the blood running through the veins of the Disc and * Parched land will take any poison and I Drank, I Drank deeply so * He was watching not smiling but I felt * Ecstasy exploding from the tip of my fingertips, the touch of Truth * I smiled, my lips so red, like I had just ripped a throat with my teeth * Ecstasy, my heart rushing, Truth beating * Ecstasy, ecstasy, my lips half-open * Ecstasy, its taste in my tongue * Ecstasy! Bliss! * Raptured, stolen from this time, stolen from this moment, stolen myself and in the depths of this I found *

* It is of the Ages *
* * I am of the Ages * *
* * * α  λ  έ  θ  ε  ι  α * * *

"Thank you, Alejandro", he said.
(Not a moment had passed? Not a moment)
Then he put on his helmet.
And left the room.

And I kept in my hand his Cup.
And the last drop, I spilled on the floor.

[Don Nadie]

Scammed!

Alright, future Alejandro, here's a note for you:

Next time a rich Baz'eeli widow comes with tears in her eyes, then promises a lot of money if you just provide her with some translations from ancient documents, be wary. Do not inmediately throw yourself at it and lock yourself in your room, thinking this will mean you're set for the rest of your life.

Also, when the rich Baz'eeli widow tells you that her funds have been inmobilized by some small legal trouble due to the death of her husband, and couldn't you borrow her a few thousand dinari to contact her attorney in Alkab, she'll return it to you, plus the payment, plus an extra for the trouble? Don't inmediately go to your bank, tears in your eyes at her suffering, and get out your savings.

Specially, don't agree to give her a bit more so she can pay rent while the funds are mobilized. Specially don't agree three times over the course of three weeks, while still working hard on the translation that will sure mean you don't need to take one more dumb comission in your life. Also, just because she cries doesn't mean you need to gift her some rare books to distract herself.

Future Alejandro: please remember that just because an elderly woman says something with tears in her eyes, that doesn't mean its true. This is just like when I gave my savings to that boy. Or when I gave a Rose cloak to that criminal.

In hindsight, I think I have a weakness for sob stories. And I am not great at learning my lessons...

[A note has been tucked in the entry. It seems written by another delicate hand.]

Dearest, good-natured Alejandro,

By now, you should've realized this is a scam. You should, in fact, have realized about two weeks ago, when I falsified a letter from my Alkabi attorneys and used, as seal, the Pyramid's seal for goat-hoarding licenceses. Or maybe when I forgot my "dearly missed" husband's name for the third time. Or maybe when I asked for your help finding buyers of antique books after you borrowed me a few antique books.

Seriously, boy: what's your problem?! You have the attention-span of a mayfly! And you are a performer! You should understand better than anyone how easy it is to feign tears! I was expecting to get some translations for you, and re-sell them in Baz'eel, but now you've gotten me set for life! And I could've gotten more from you, you innocent, stupid man. But last we spoke, and you still gave me more, I felt bad about scamming you!

Not bad enough to return the money, or share the profits, mind you.

Anyhow! Live and drink! I'll toast to your health!

Yours,

"Rich Baz'eeli Widow"

[Don Nadie]

Uprooting

Her hands went to her neck, languid.
A jewel, an accessory.
Belonging to someone else, gone now.
To the Stars, and between the Stars.

"Do you think of her often, Alejandro?"

I paused, I felt myself tensing.
(Like the string of a bow, I felt, about to snap)
(If I shot at her, would I wound predator or prey?)

"At times", I said, simply.
"Often enough, when I wander alone at night"
She nodded. So very slowly.
"As do I", she echoed. "At times"

Below us the stage, people coming and going.
An auction, charity, something starting.
Another dropplet of goodness, perhaps.
Or another lie we tell ourselves, and others.
An occasion, at the very  least, to drink.

"She was a complicated person", I said.
(Why did I continue? Why did I need to share?)
"She evokes complicated feelings"
(Was I so desperate to talk about her?)
"Of course", she answered.
"A mere handful of us carry the burden we shared with her"
"The memories. The knowledge. The insights of those days"

I exhaled, between my teeth. My jaw, clenched.
(This spot, right here, so many insights had been shared)
I looked down onto the Verdant Stage, ever grand.
Where I had grown so much, shared so much, done so much.
That stage, could I still call it mine, without the colors?
And who was I, if that stage wasn't mine still?
What is a performer, when not on the stage?

"Yes", I admited, softly.
I carried so many who were gone. Memories. Knowledge. Insight.
"One canot simply... Uproot people from one's heart"
"Even the complicated ones..."

I paused. I wondered whether she was listening.
(How much does one hear, from the stars above?)

"Specially the complicated ones".

[Don Nadie]

Speaking of Doors

We set for the First Wheel together.
Dawn, blooming as we arrived.
The stone's silence, each standing ancient and endless.
As the stars faded one after another.
As darkness gave in to light, just as light had given in to darkness.
Symbolical, I felt, the eternity of this stone.

"We see an axe and we think Agaslakku", she said.
"But what if it is meant to be something else?"

The ayaba wrapped her small, sturdy body.
(I can never get used to seeing her in such uniform)
(There's some wrongness, to it. I can admit it)

"Symbols reocurr, are reapropriated", I replied.
"Does the original meaning matter?", I added, softening my voice.
"Or what we do with it?"

Words were shared, as the sun climbed higher.
Shared, I say, though I mostly listened. I and the megaliths.
And that carved head stared, pitilessly.
Words upon words. Such horrible and magnificent adventure.
Al-Nasr, Assuru, the Heron, the Gates, the Roads.
The under-stars, glimmering in secret patterns.
Names whispered and entwinning and mingling once again.
How many names remain buried, in the desert?
Were two bodies a fair price to pay?
For a Legate and a handful of names?

"I wonder sometimes if what we know is true", she said.
"I wonder about the Wheel", she added.
"And in wondering that..."

She didn't finish her thoughs. She didn't have to.
Every archaeologist has that phase, that moment.
When faith begins to be shaken, never to retun in full.

"Behind every door", I said.
"Three more remain".

I paused. The sun was now high above us.
It burnt, Pra'raj, ever-furious and hateful.

"And a door, once opened, can never be closed."

[Don Nadie]

By Her Hand

[A scroll is tucked between the pages of this entry. A drawing most strange, by another hand.]



We spoke. Of Feyd, first.
Visions, appearance and truth.
Weaving oneself into dreams.
And Time, a wheel.
And the Mind, reaching, reached.

"Are you sincerely yourself?", I asked.
She smiled, with some surprise, I think.
She approached slowly, so slowly.
A tide of blackness, coming closer.
"What do you think, dear Alejandro?"

(I don't know why I asked)
(Did I want to blame someone else?)
(Anyone else?)
But she was getting closer, perhaps too close.
And breathing, I was finding it difficult.

"I am part of the Sisterhood, and the Sisterhood is part of me"
"In this sense, I am never entirely myself", she said, softly.
"And never entirely alone".
"In a literal or metaphorical sense?", I asked.
(Such thirst, for answers, for truth)
She smiled. Deep like the void, her eyes.
"I find that distinction unhelpful"

Her hand fell on my shoulder.
(When had she gotten this near?)
Her hand fell and I wanted to cut it.

"I know that I am attached"
"Connected"
She was speaking so softly, with such deliberation.
Like an artist, stroking the finishing touch.
"Loneliness too becomes revealed for the ilusion that it is"

Her hand stayed on my shoulder.
(Did it always burn this much, her hand, through the gloves?)
And I wanted her hand to choke me.
To choke out the lies, and the pain, and my breath.
To strangle my wrongness.

"If only you had stayed with us", she whispered.
"So much more I could've shown you"
"So much more we could've seen...", she continued.
"...together"

Her hand was on my shoulder.
And I wanted to take it, to kiss it.
Abject subjection, I wanted, no more choice.

"Do not", I snapped.

Her hand was on me.
                  And I wanted it to be my enemy.
                                   My truth.              My lies.
                                       Her hand was on me, even when I told her to stop. (And she stopped)
                 Even when I told her to leave. (And she left)
                                                 Even when I locked the door,
                                                          and leaned my back against it,
                                                          and slid down to the floor.
                          Even when I delved deep into the clouds.

                                                              Her hand was on me.

[Don Nadie]

Sickness

In sickness, the world stretches. As I laid in bed, over this past week, feverish and vomiting, there were moments of exceedingly brief clarity that verged on Revelation. I wondered whether this was an impression, a lie cocnocted by my own addled mind, or factual Truth.

I wondered where the difference lies.

I remember one talk in the Sandstone (or was it with Nebtu) about how the world is but the reflection of purer thoughts, of clearer shapes. The counterpoint to that is that if our reality is illusion, when we suffer hallucinations we are, in fact, returning to the truth. Or maybe there are layers within layers and what we believe to be those Pure shapes are but another level of Intrigue and wandering lies, another horizon never to be reached.

Wheel, I have missed wandering, during this bout of sickness. I have missed distractions.

The dreams did not get better. Sometimes I woke up shaking and sweaty, the Red taste upon my lips, and the world felt so intolerably separate, so desperately away, that all I could do was throw myself into the clouds. Not having the strength to emerge, to come out, didn't help. That is the horrible thing of being sick: you have nothing to do but to confront yourself. How desperately I need my distractions...

But it is fine, it will be fine. Care less, work more. That is the trick. And go forward, forward, forward... Because the moment you stop, is the moment you die.

[Don Nadie]

In Return

He remains himself, I felt.
Regardless of colors, the same sad kindness.
Too stubborn, his stone, to be changed.
(At least, for now)

"I trust you wholeheartedly", I declared.
(Perhaps dramatic? No less truthful)
"I just don't trust your masters."
I paused. The burden of an admission.
"I once trusted her but..."

A pause, ponderous.
Gazing at me with deep, boundless sadness.
Behind his eyes, the turning of the stars.
The turning of Ages, too.

"She was changed. Not by her choice"
"We each know parts. See glimpses"
I nodded, sadly.
"We all have been changed", I admitted.
"None for the better"

I lit a cigarette, tobacco, not enough.
Not the right clouds, where one can rest.
Where anxiety drifts off and becomes formless.
And bearable, too.

"We still choose how we behave", I added.
"Suffering, after all, is no excuse to harm others"
I took a puff. How used I am, now, to that burn.
"And I think I cling for too long to those I love"
"Too desperately, I clung to her"

His companion was ponderous, rumbling.
Another creature, not of the onrush.
Their words and voices deep, like underground streams.
Their eyes black, and empty, and full of reflections.

"It is not wrong to love selflessly", he said.
(Had my expression flickered, my mask slipped?)
"The mistake is to expect something in return".

[Don Nadie]

Weeds

Once, there was a man who sinned.
Oh, how dark that turned his heart.
How questionable his motives.
How untrustworthy his every breath.

"I'm still bein' careful", he whispered.
"But by my account, I'm in the lead"
I smiled, hopeful. How could I not?
After all, I still dream of progress.
And I'm still an idiot.

And one day, the man did good.
Orphans were fed, widows were housed.
Coin, and help, and power, given freely.
Yet the man remained suspect.
For sin, like a weed, takes root.

"I am choosing to hope that things will improve".
My words rang empty in the now-unfamiliar temple.
"I am obliged to say that I doubt it", said he.
Still in his toga, no longer a Legate.
"But I also believe it", he added.

And so it went, that he lived without trust.
For, can good actions not hide wicked aims?
Like the cloak which hides the knife?
Results, perhaps, weight less than intent.
And none can know the intent of another.
As the heart, as ever, stays hidden.

"One is a murderer", she said.
"The other, a fake".
There was a tension in her gait.
A studied carelessness that felt all too familiar.
"Good luck, I guess", she concluded.

But hope, oh, hope.
Hope that people are good.
Hope that people can change.
For if others can change, so can one.
Hope, too, is a weed.