[memshare] Destiny's Appointed Hour
May. 25th, 2024 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
troublereductionThe first and only time you had a major role on the stage was also the appointed hour when destiny claimed you.
You no longer remember the lines you said and barely remember what the play was even about, as if everything around the event crowds out the lesser details. You do, however, remember this with perfect clarity, even through the sense that you must have been losing your mind back then, because moments like this never leave a person until they breathe their last:
When the appointed hour arrived while you were on the stage, it was like enlightenment graced you out of nowhere. Every possibility defined by fate laid out before you in your mind's eye; every string and thread of cause and effect for every choice that you could make, and you could pick each one out at a glance. To you, the world sang with star-music, what you imagine celestial harmony would sound like—in perfect pitch with the Essence of the world, past, present and future. Fate opened up your senses to the wireframe of causality, and destiny marked you as one of its own.
Then the moment passes, and amidst the applause, something fundamental and essential within you snaps, like strings pulled taut and unceremoniously cut.
Unease descends upon you even as you bow to the audience with their eyes on you, because why, then, do you suddenly feel alone?
The other cast members congratulate you, and you all share in the camaraderie of a job well done and a show finished. You duck away to get changed and try to settle the inexplicable dread in your heart.
When you emerge and head to where they're celebrating backstage, they look at you, and in their eyes you see them wondering: "Who is this?"
And then, one of them asks, "How did you get here? Backstage's off-limits to the public."
"Guys, quit pullin' my leg." Because surely this must be some kind of prank, right? "You sayin' I'm not invited to the party?"
"Yes, actually."
Wait. "Y'all just saw me up on stage."
A bunch of them look at each other in confusion. Some of them sideglance at each other, and you can tell none of them believe you. One of them (Elm, recollection supplies to you), steps forward, looking miffed. "Look, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. You're not supposed to be here, and lying's not doing you any favours."
"But I ain't…" You don't understand what's going on, as the first cracks in your life form. "I filled in for Kestrel—"
"No, you didn't. Kestrel was up there just fine." Elm sounds frustrated like he isn't sure why he's having this conversation. "Now get out before I throw you—"
You don't hear the end of that sentence because you've bolted by then. Out from the backstage, past the seats into the hallway and straight to the lobby. By now most of the guests have left, with a few people lingering about. In a corner of the lobby, you spot Sparrow sitting on a bench there, and you instantly head over.
"Sparrow, you won't believe what just happened…"
Your voice trails off when Sparrow looks up at you and again, there is no recognition in his eyes. "Um…Pardon me, but do I know you?"
And this is when your world shatters. The moment where you grow convinced you must be having some kind of weird fever dream or something, because this surely can't be happening. "It's me, Moss."
Sparrow's eyes dart around in nervousness, the face of someone trying to figure out how to handle an awkward situation, before he finally says, "I-I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I'm waiting for a friend."
That friend should be you. You're the one who gave him the ticket for tonight's show, after sneaking into his family's garden to climb up the tree to his bedroom window. You snuck a quick kiss from him before you left when he said he was looking forward to the show. So why does he act like you're a stranger?
"I…" You feel like someone else is talking through your mouth. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Have a good night." And you turn on your heel and leave through the front doors without missing a beat.
Outside, you stand there with your mind racing a mile a minute. They don't remember you. Not the troupe, not Sparrow. You stare out into the nighttime crowd of people walking by in the arts district, going about their business as if you weren't there, aren't…
The urge to run seizes you. And so you run.
You don't know where you're running to, or what you'll do when you reach that nebulous destination, or if you even want to stop running. All you know is that you don't want to be here.
So you run, and run, and run, causality's threads tugging this way and that so that there is conveniently never anyone in your way. The scenery around you is a blur as you go faster and faster and faster, as though the run could consume you and you wouldn't have to think or worry anymore.
You only stop when your body has burnt up all it can give and you can't keep going, your limbs aching and your lungs practically on fire. By the time you fall on your back, you land on soft grass in a field outside of Juche City, beneath the starry night sky. You can't do anything else but stare up at it as you catch your breath.
For the first time, the stars speak to you, silent yet distant, a fundamental part of you. Without words, they say they are watching you, eternal witnesses for the rest of your life.
And beneath the still sea of stars, a myriad of twinkling faces, you realize that the emptiness you feel is a sign of ties severed. You are well and truly alone in this world now.
…In the distance, there is the sound of soft footsteps in the grass, and a voice that heralds a life forever changed: "You're quite a runner, aren't you?"
You no longer remember the lines you said and barely remember what the play was even about, as if everything around the event crowds out the lesser details. You do, however, remember this with perfect clarity, even through the sense that you must have been losing your mind back then, because moments like this never leave a person until they breathe their last:
When the appointed hour arrived while you were on the stage, it was like enlightenment graced you out of nowhere. Every possibility defined by fate laid out before you in your mind's eye; every string and thread of cause and effect for every choice that you could make, and you could pick each one out at a glance. To you, the world sang with star-music, what you imagine celestial harmony would sound like—in perfect pitch with the Essence of the world, past, present and future. Fate opened up your senses to the wireframe of causality, and destiny marked you as one of its own.
Then the moment passes, and amidst the applause, something fundamental and essential within you snaps, like strings pulled taut and unceremoniously cut.
Unease descends upon you even as you bow to the audience with their eyes on you, because why, then, do you suddenly feel alone?
The other cast members congratulate you, and you all share in the camaraderie of a job well done and a show finished. You duck away to get changed and try to settle the inexplicable dread in your heart.
When you emerge and head to where they're celebrating backstage, they look at you, and in their eyes you see them wondering: "Who is this?"
And then, one of them asks, "How did you get here? Backstage's off-limits to the public."
"Guys, quit pullin' my leg." Because surely this must be some kind of prank, right? "You sayin' I'm not invited to the party?"
"Yes, actually."
Wait. "Y'all just saw me up on stage."
A bunch of them look at each other in confusion. Some of them sideglance at each other, and you can tell none of them believe you. One of them (Elm, recollection supplies to you), steps forward, looking miffed. "Look, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. You're not supposed to be here, and lying's not doing you any favours."
"But I ain't…" You don't understand what's going on, as the first cracks in your life form. "I filled in for Kestrel—"
"No, you didn't. Kestrel was up there just fine." Elm sounds frustrated like he isn't sure why he's having this conversation. "Now get out before I throw you—"
You don't hear the end of that sentence because you've bolted by then. Out from the backstage, past the seats into the hallway and straight to the lobby. By now most of the guests have left, with a few people lingering about. In a corner of the lobby, you spot Sparrow sitting on a bench there, and you instantly head over.
"Sparrow, you won't believe what just happened…"
Your voice trails off when Sparrow looks up at you and again, there is no recognition in his eyes. "Um…Pardon me, but do I know you?"
And this is when your world shatters. The moment where you grow convinced you must be having some kind of weird fever dream or something, because this surely can't be happening. "It's me, Moss."
Sparrow's eyes dart around in nervousness, the face of someone trying to figure out how to handle an awkward situation, before he finally says, "I-I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I'm waiting for a friend."
That friend should be you. You're the one who gave him the ticket for tonight's show, after sneaking into his family's garden to climb up the tree to his bedroom window. You snuck a quick kiss from him before you left when he said he was looking forward to the show. So why does he act like you're a stranger?
"I…" You feel like someone else is talking through your mouth. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Have a good night." And you turn on your heel and leave through the front doors without missing a beat.
Outside, you stand there with your mind racing a mile a minute. They don't remember you. Not the troupe, not Sparrow. You stare out into the nighttime crowd of people walking by in the arts district, going about their business as if you weren't there, aren't…
The urge to run seizes you. And so you run.
You don't know where you're running to, or what you'll do when you reach that nebulous destination, or if you even want to stop running. All you know is that you don't want to be here.
So you run, and run, and run, causality's threads tugging this way and that so that there is conveniently never anyone in your way. The scenery around you is a blur as you go faster and faster and faster, as though the run could consume you and you wouldn't have to think or worry anymore.
You only stop when your body has burnt up all it can give and you can't keep going, your limbs aching and your lungs practically on fire. By the time you fall on your back, you land on soft grass in a field outside of Juche City, beneath the starry night sky. You can't do anything else but stare up at it as you catch your breath.
For the first time, the stars speak to you, silent yet distant, a fundamental part of you. Without words, they say they are watching you, eternal witnesses for the rest of your life.
And beneath the still sea of stars, a myriad of twinkling faces, you realize that the emptiness you feel is a sign of ties severed. You are well and truly alone in this world now.
…In the distance, there is the sound of soft footsteps in the grass, and a voice that heralds a life forever changed: "You're quite a runner, aren't you?"
