Second wind

After what most likely will have seemed like a period of that all too common idleness we mere mortals comfortably came to denote as "death", this blog seems to be alive and once more kicking (meekly, as though not to hurt anyone).

And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".

For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).

Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.

And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:

"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.

"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.

"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.

"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?

"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.

"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.

"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.

"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.

"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.

"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.

"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.

"I thought you loved me..."

-- A mayonaise bottle.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?