Satisfaction Brought It Back

[Proselyte]

The sensation is akin to floating, really. Or at least, I wonder that to myself, pinnacle of understatement.


I suppose more accurately, it is the flow of that ephemeral feeling, gliding on a cloud when you're on the boundary between wakefulness and restful sleep. That's the place I find myself transported when I take the time to stop, breathe, focus. Here, the boundaries between things, people, they start to lose shape, feel permeable.

The music that's written every second when we create meaning, that's breathing outward from anything that lives, it's something I think I always had an ear for, but never appreciated in the way it deserved.

Then, years ago now, I took that first curious step.

And I finally witnessed how colorful the universe was, within and without.

Your eyes open, sparkling. Ones you did not know you possessed.

And yet, peril was waiting. With this music, comes the voice.

A dam breaking, memories from before. A sickeningly-sweet drowning is what it offers. What it craves to inflict on others.

What pulled me beyond the clouds of my tranquil little home.

Despite all logic... a shred of my will aches to play the traitor. It reaches for that oblivion of the self. Desire for dissolution.

You will never be alone again.

Even amid my fear, I know it is right...




...

You must hold the cards. Don't let anyone else control your fate.

... but perhaps not in the way it expects.


Theirs has not been the only voice running through my mind. Time and desperate intent have seen to that.

You've got nothing to thank me for. Just live your life the way you want to. Don't be a puppet. Farewell.

Allies and potential foes alike remind me of my worth.

You've got a sort of magnetism to you. Attracts some, repels others.

Finding refuge in others, and being that for them in turn.

Together to the end, yeah? It's us against the world now.

The fate it wants for us is not what we're meant for. It can't be, can it? But I've felt the anguish, the rage at anything that defies their design.

Human defiance... majestic to behold, infernal to experience.

The trauma of a species, of the neglected.

You tread in the GARDEN of DEAD GODS.

And... the lonesome.

I stood by and watched, like a coward, while this impulse harmed those I care for.

Worse, I aided in it.

I won't be party to that again.



Unexpectedly, the dream shudders. Something stirred - a loud crash?

The cloud beneath me shakes and shears apart,

and my self plummets,

hurtling, flailing, falling miles in mere seconds,

I spiral helplessly towards the ground and

into my own skin with a sudden shock, sucking in a reflexive gasp.


The room around me was blurred, taking a moment to come into focus.

Steady. Regulate your breathing. Pick a spot, and blink three times.



And ease into it.



I'm sitting cross-legged on my little bed, in my room in that apartment complex on Denver. The dull thumping of loud club music from the floor below echoes through the walls. In this bedroom, it's remarkably spartan, but the most standout fixture is my little Arabica coffee plant in front of me on the floor, which I'd been facing with my eyes closed. Not exactly the most standout object for meditation, but having a living thing close by helps carry me back to calmer places.

Well, except for the person standing in my open door. There's a young man leaning there, looking at me curiously. Twenty-two years old, light skin, lanky but athletic, very curly blonde hair, a little taller than me dressed in a varsity jacket and jeans. Has he been there long?

"Uh, yo. We didn't freak you out, did we? Was kinda loud down there." he says, with a bit of a lisp.

His name's Dean. A frequent visitor to Levan's den here in the building, where I happen to be making my stay. I think he's actually one of the more accommodating regulars regarding the fact that I'm probably the oldest person here. He doesn't seem too judgmental about whatever I seem to be doing in his eyes, sitting on the bed in my hoodie with my hair in a messy pile.

"No, I was just- uh, is something wrong?" I ask, tilting my head.

"Nah, well, Savannah sorta dived after the cleaning bot while she was blitzed out and fell onto the table. Made a huuuge damn mess."

"Oh, gosh. Do you need a hand picking up?"

"Nah, you don't have to, but like if you want. I kinda don't want Mo to tan our asses when she gets back."

"We don't want that, do we?"

I spend the next half-hour helping the gaggle of hedonists downstairs clean up their mess, picking up shattered bottles and sweeping up the floor. Thankfully nobody was hurt, but apparently this sort of thing happens often. To be honest, it's a refreshing atmosphere, after what I had to walk away from two systems away. People immersed in and living for the present moment.

I can't help but reminded here among them that I have no permanent place of my own to go to. No home in space, no career. I know Levan would probably let me stay as long as I like here, or on the Kay, and I'm grateful for that. That listlessness is familiar to the people here, the den likewise a place between worlds. It's refreshing, but I can't stay here forever. Not when I know what awaits out there. Danger and discovery, as well as the designs hanging over our heads.

There's no way I'm staying away from that. I owe it to myself, and to the others. Even if I think I'll tackle things my own way.

And I have to admit: it'll be a rush to get back to shining my own light on things. Within and without.

Still waters that run deep, that's you.

And if the dam does break, maybe I'll have learned how to swim by then.