Ok there's this.
Back fresh from another war, he is not ruminating, because there is no time.
However.
Every month or so, for about three days, when the moon is doing something particularly witchy, he finds himself back at the feet of the ocean, not putting his feet in intentionally, but not avoiding the waves, and so he is getting very, very wet.
It's nothing really significant, except there has been a turn recently, one that took a month or a year or maybe even more, some unkind undercurrent that was making him crazy at night, until he decided to give himself over to it, even if it made him unkind in turn.
And it is of course impossible to know what anyone is thinking ever, because the one who is thinking is never able to completely capture all of their thoughts, maybe only a tiny percentage of them, and usually the tiny percentage of the thoughts we do know are the ones that we narrate to ourselves, and that is always only partial and terribly incomplete. But everything is terribly incomplete, or else we wouldn't spend so much time wondering about the ones who seem to know us well enough to complete something that we can't complete ourselves, and this is where children, ideas, and all the horses of the mind come from.
There are a lot of horses in this.
But this is some of the narration of what he is thinking to himself at this very moment by the sea.
HE: This is half the story, but there's more than half that's left of the story, I know that for sure, but when that shell closed itself up and the shiny thing inside disappeared from my sight, I knew that this was definitely an ending. But like all endings, it marked something of a beginning, and the beginning is always built on the ancestors of that idea that makes it necessary for another birth. So. I will go back to the sea, setting out on the water, armed and dangerous and ready for something that I could not possibly have expected, except I sailed into its very mouth so I must have known what I was getting into. Is exactly what I will tell myself when I am swallowed by the thing that scares me the most, or the thing that I love the best, or maybe they're the same thing?
And that's how it starts.
Back fresh from another war, he is not ruminating, because there is no time.
However.
Every month or so, for about three days, when the moon is doing something particularly witchy, he finds himself back at the feet of the ocean, not putting his feet in intentionally, but not avoiding the waves, and so he is getting very, very wet.
It's nothing really significant, except there has been a turn recently, one that took a month or a year or maybe even more, some unkind undercurrent that was making him crazy at night, until he decided to give himself over to it, even if it made him unkind in turn.
And it is of course impossible to know what anyone is thinking ever, because the one who is thinking is never able to completely capture all of their thoughts, maybe only a tiny percentage of them, and usually the tiny percentage of the thoughts we do know are the ones that we narrate to ourselves, and that is always only partial and terribly incomplete. But everything is terribly incomplete, or else we wouldn't spend so much time wondering about the ones who seem to know us well enough to complete something that we can't complete ourselves, and this is where children, ideas, and all the horses of the mind come from.
There are a lot of horses in this.
But this is some of the narration of what he is thinking to himself at this very moment by the sea.
HE: This is half the story, but there's more than half that's left of the story, I know that for sure, but when that shell closed itself up and the shiny thing inside disappeared from my sight, I knew that this was definitely an ending. But like all endings, it marked something of a beginning, and the beginning is always built on the ancestors of that idea that makes it necessary for another birth. So. I will go back to the sea, setting out on the water, armed and dangerous and ready for something that I could not possibly have expected, except I sailed into its very mouth so I must have known what I was getting into. Is exactly what I will tell myself when I am swallowed by the thing that scares me the most, or the thing that I love the best, or maybe they're the same thing?
And that's how it starts.
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