View source for Walking home from my mother's suicide

[[Category:Bardic Merit Awards]][[Category:2006 Bardics]]
By: Machiavelli
Posted on: December 30, 2006


Snow was something I'd never liked. It was the herald of blasts of frigid air
and the freezing of hope that the depths of winter had passed. The soft white
fell and stifled the night, and the early afternoon's rays became a blinding
fire with the ground shrouded. Despite my disdain for the weather, the
snowflakes calmed my disposition and helped focus my mind, perhaps making me
despise the soft, windless floating of flakes all the more, that it would help
me in the face of my best efforts to reject it.

It never cared about my disdain, and fell when it liked. The Road of Eternity
was a chasm clad in crystal, and Harris' services at the Eventide were all the
more inviting for it. I had a long journey ahead of me, and though the
barstool was elusive, besotted as I was, I figured "North" would be easy enough
to find. If push came to shove, I'd just roll out of the Chute of Eternity and
keep on a straight path. Harris brought another round. He must've seen I was
in a fairly foul mood, so his and mine went on the house's tab.

"What in the name of the Gods has you wantin' to take a trek up north? In the
middle of winter, no less!" He looked concerned, but I knew he didn't even
know my name, though he may have known me by wallet. I uttered some
half-formed response about family, which did nothing to stay his questions. "I
never picked you for a family man, always runnin' in here with that pretty Siren
of your'n," he said, with a grin of pride that he'd found some humor in
insulting me.

"Her name is Saria, and she's going to be my wife. Thanks for your concern."
No wonder the old barrel of a man was alone--he certainly wasn't full of charm.
At least he wasn't hitting on me. Or hitting on my beloved in front of me,
though that only because she wasn't here with me.

I'd drowned my last response in venom, which caused Harris to turn his
attention to polishing his glasses and the occasional customer; the unfortunate
side-effect of this was that he stopped buying me drinks. It was just as
well--the snow no longer whipped by outside, but fell in a think, silent
blanket. Figuring that the cask of alcohol I'd consumed would be enough to
keep me warm, I donned my white cloak and replaced my hat as I stepped out the
door.

The Granite Hills looked serene, rather than imposing and forlorn, under the
drifts of snow. The trek took about twice as long as it should have, on
account of getting lost far more than I should have. Over the domes and
drifts, looking for the wall of trees ahead of me. They rose from the ground
ahead of me, finally, and I let myself believe that walking into their boughs
was the ultimate goal of my journey, rather than the end of the first third.

Unhindered by snow, the forest floor was relieving to cross as opposed to the
frigid icecap that the hills had been. It was still damned cold {Why was I
making this trip in the winter?}, and the idea of the plains to the north of
Northreach, where there was no foliage to foil the wind was colder still.

The grass faded from a dying brown-green to inexistence as the landscape became
blasted by ice instead of cradled by snow. This was why I'd moved to Shallam,
ideals be damned. Snow never fell there, and ice was a delicacy and a dream,
not a discomfort and an obstacle. I would have prayed to be changed into an
Atavian, with wings to ferry me over the cold, but ill-disposed as I was, my
pessimism figured I'd probably just be blown into the ocean. And that,
somehow, the ocean would be colder than the ice. It was a good thing I was
traveling alone, so no one had to hear me bitch and moan. Had I heard myself
complaining, I'm sure I would've sounded like a child.

More tundra crossed under my feet, and though I kept a steady pace, night fell.
In spite of my weariness, I trekked on: I hadn't brought enough food to stop
and rest {being frugal with purchase of sustenance from being liberal with
purchase of alcohol}, and there was no way I was trying to find some shelter in
these God-forsaken lands. So, fueled by my utter hatred for snow, I kept
moving.

Finally, structures rose out of the ground, like the trees of Northreach. I
knew, sullenly, that I hadn't erred, and that I was finally in the icy village
of Kamleikan. I had to confront the reasons I was here, put past prejudices
aside, shut up, and listen.

As the sun rose, I stumbled into the village, frostbitten and silently
shivering in gratitude for the villagers who welcomed me in like silence,
strangely keen to my intentions. I was led to a hut with purpose, and inside,
behind a door, wrapped in blankets, I found my mother, just as I'd known I
would. A sickly smile, warm with the comfort that family brings, spread across
her face as I sat wordlessly on the floor at her bedside, back against the
wooden frame in exhaustion. I was tired, and had time, and she knew I needed
to rest.

All these years, all these years her heart had stopped beating in her chest,
and pulsed only in my own. I had told her, a century ago, that I would be
staying in Shallam and joining the Dawnstriders, and she walked out of my life.
She wore a smile that spoke of her confidence in me and her expectations, and I
never heard from her again. I never knew why she'd done that, let me walk out
on my own instead of supporting me the whole like most mothers had, like -she-
always had before. A letter, and a wish to see me once again, a century later.
I still felt it was my obligation, even had it not been my desire, to see her.
Yes, a hundred years passed, but I was still her son, and she still stood on a
pedestal in my memories.

I awoke as soup was served to her; thoughtfully, a bowl was also brought to me.
I was lightened some by the refusal to avoid the unavoidable: she had been gone
more than most of my life, her sense of guilt knew that, and whatever
reparations could be made would be made with the simple-yet-monumental question
of "How have you been, my son?" A slight smile was in my voice at the chance to
have a real response to "How are you?" other than the same in return or some
placating banality of "Fine, thanks." Will is an amazing thing--it puts aside
years of distaste for the wishful thinking that the errors of the past had
never happened, and in that wishful thinking realizes its dream.

She had continued to sing after I had remained in Shallam, touring the
continent (and even its satellites) to share with others her love of music, and
through that, earn the ability to live. We both recalled fondly when Ralph
established the tradition of the bard formally, publicly; it was a thing of
beauty, to see the Arts I had been so well-instructed in and fond of in my
childhood become championed as equals to the intolerance and bloodshed that
likewise was taught. My mother felt the same--after all, she was my mother.

My mother hadn't summoned me on whim--she was dying. A terrible illness
grasped her frame, and no panacea could overthrow it. Not even death. Her
eyelids had lightened and her body strengthened with my arrival, but they
manifested as delays of the inevitable. How sickness could grasp a person
beyond death, through the Salvation of Maya, perplexed me. What force
transcended She Who could force a soul back into its mortal form? Praying to
the Great Mother granted no solace, and the hand of whatever power vied for my
mother's soul clenched firmly about its prey.

Months of tending to my mother turned into years. My thoughts often swept
south, to my home, my family, my duties to my House. Saria had just had our
first child when I'd left; how ironic that caring for my mother would cause me
to fail in the same way she had. It all seemed wrong, and so hopeless; every
day my mother's condition degraded, one drop of blood, one bead of sweat at a
time. We were as family, though, and we came to know each other as the new
individuals we had become.

I questioned her choice of the polar north of the world as we know it as a
locale for convalescence. She smiled softly: "It's quiet here, and there's
always snow â€¦" It had been well over four years since my arrival to the
village, and on this day something made sense, as two droplets of water joining
to one. She came up here to find somewhere quiet. She called me here to see me
again, to make amends and reforge our relationship before she killed herself.
She had stayed in this village to die.

She passed away quietly, with a smile on her face, and of her own free will in
a slow suicide caused by her own demons that plagued her head; a slow suicide
that drew from my blood outrage and fear. She would not come back, she had
ended her life permanently. Why? Why could, how could she do this? Not only
to me but to herself? What of her musical talents, now? My mind whirled with
thoughts, and it became apparent to me that I had not a damned clue for any of
the whies and hows and shouldn'ts for my mother. I felt naked and terrified,
lost and alone, because I didn't have a damned clue about any of those for
myself, either. I was sick in my heart, and I took to bed in Kamleikan, eating
soup and cowering in fear of the great abyss of reasonless action that was
around me. Sitting in bed, sullenly enjoying the solitude, sipping my soup--it
took me much longer than it should have to recognize the imitation of folly.
Sick to striding, that very night I departed with my things; I thanked those
who had abided me, who I had worked with to pay for the hospitality for my
mother and myself, who had become almost as family to me, and I left to answer
questions, instead of asking them.

I traveled faster than I had years ago, imbued with a will to knowledge rather
than apprehension of the unavoidable; the snow melted beneath my feet, the
world whispered past me in my haste. I strode swiftly to Hashan, the genesis
of my exodus of years, and arrived in Tasur'ke by northeast. I was walking out
of the candy store, enjoying the rapturous taste of an almond-encrusted
honey-coated strawberry--there I stopped, being struck by a strange spectacle.
Two men were engaged in combat, drawing torrents of blood from one another,
stoic and lifeless expressions on their face, the children of either apathy or
a lack of interest in the outcome. Blows fell heavy across one man's chest,
and he sank to one knee as his armour buckled beneath the blows. His chest
heaved once with a massive attempt to draw in a rallying strength before his
opponent's weapon howled down from the air, ripping through his neck with a
sharp crack as his neck snapped. In a flash, his form was again before me,
shimmering with the translucency of a disembodied soul. Wordlessly, both strode
away from the scene, countenances of uncaring stone. I spoke out to the
glimmering entity, and his hazy brow turned my way: "What shall you do now,
that you are dead?"

His face unchanged, he paused and thought for a second. "Why, get better, I
suppose. I wasn't good enough this time." He began to step off again, even as
he spoke, some purpose chief in his thoughts.

"But, sir, what can you do if you are dead? Surely the liberties of the living
are sacrificed with dying!"

He paused and wheeled around to meet me, musing but contemptuous of the fact
that I was depriving him of his better-spent time. "Well, I suppose â€¦ there
are some things you can't do while you're while you're dead. But coming back
to life fixes that!" His mouth opened and he leaned back, his shimmering shape
unable to expel the healthy sound of living laughter.

"What is death, then, if you can just become alive again?" My mind flashed
back to my mother, who had taken her own life from within, departing this
mortal coil for all eternity, no longer a part of such a cycle.

"Why â€¦ I suppose it's a part of life." He sank to his knees and began to
pray, fading slowly from sight.

Being in the possession of some coin (hence the haughty display of wealth upon
purchasing my strawberry), I decided that some drinks with Harris at the
Eventide would help me unravel my web of questions. He smiled, a hint
sardonic, upon my return, and poured me a glass of absinthe before I'd taken a
seat at the bar. The stool felt awkward, and the bar seemed crowded by the
young man who had taken over my usual abode.

"I know just what you're wantin', Mach!" he said as slid the glass my way. "Of
course, this one's on the house, for old times' sake. What's the word on yer
mum?"

How could he have known? "Harris, does anyone ever really care about death
anymore? Does anyone even know what it really is?" His face, rather than
souring at heavy matters or smiling and brushing it aside ignorantly, flashed a
sense of concern over my intent brow.

The youthful fellow turned his head toward me, eyes heavy with the weight of
stiff drink. "I shpose y'could talk thimin Teer Myuran, them ahh â€¦,"--here
he hiccupped, that sophisticated man--"thim Viertni has a whooooole lotta
diff'rn to say bout deafth." I tipped my hat to the two of them, leaving one
with a puzzled look and the other with dreams of a hangover.

So far, my counsel had come from a drunken sot a quarter my age and someone who
was already dead. Set on my course, I was [luckily] ignorant of that at the
time.

I arrived at Tir Muraan, the first time in years that North had led me out of
shadow. I spoke with a guard in my broken Vertani, attempting something along
the lines of "I likes speak to smarter Vertani-sir on death." The guard
reached for his weapon, the expression on his face either the result of a loss
in translation or my inability to come up with something that didn't imply he
was a not-smarter Vertani. Upon the command of "You were view Qoul the cat-sir
Daqsool" I proceeded under double-guard to meet Daqsool, the Qoul [or cat-sir].

In my second sardonic smile of the day, Daqsool uttered something unrepeatably
rapid and my escort departed. Daqsool looked at me expectantly, his slightly
unsettling grin having receded to a serene expression of interest. His body
leaned over his desk, and he towered over me--I understood the dismissing of
his guards, but the sneering at my inability to be a hulking clot of muscle was
a little rude.

"I wants learn of how view death the Vertani." Something like that. A haze of
confusion clouded his face, and he pursed his lips in thought.

His face lit up with a brief epiphany and he spoke: "Him are the [something]
Good whom are of the All where Evil is him are of ground. However, just spoken
of cat-sir, the Qoul." I really didn't grasp a mote of that. On the bright
side, I had isolated my problem with the Vertani language to reside with cats.

Smiling demeaningly at the hopeless look that had overcome me, he spoke again:
"Perhaps it is better if we speak your language." Confusion melted into
embarrassment as Daqsool demonstrated that he was the superior intellect and
diplomat, and with his massive hand he motioned me to have a seat. He sat
after I had taken leave of my feet, and leaned forward, form less imposing when
piqued with interest and seated behind a large buffer of wood. "You wish to
know what we Vertani think of death, correct?" I nodded in the affirmative.
He smiled--a warm smile, devoid of the condescension his stature already
implied. "How pleasantly strange. Someone who can barely die wants to know
what death is? Hopefully at least one head among the heard will no longer take
life for granted."

His eyes softened, his fists unclenched, and his muscles unwound into
relaxation. "'Death' does not exist in Achaea, to those of you who walk and
'die' each day. When others draw your blood, you pass into and through your
demise. Your body does not work anymore, you cease to draw breath. Your mind
lives on, encased in your soul. Through the spoilings of the Lady Maya and
Lord Sarapis, the body and mind become one again. This demise is a nothing--it
is as impersonal as each step of your foot.

"My people have known death. The mind, within the soul, is wiped clean, and
returned to the body anew when we cease to draw breath. Everything that was to
be for us is destroyed. Forever the opponent I slew will remain dead, but the
future of my family, my House, and my thoughts are all banished forever. That
is death.

"Under the protection of your Gods, you have lost your value of life. No
matter how many times you 'die,' you can still love, learn, laugh and cry,
relate to others and find something new. You Achaeans can only meet your
demise, for you ever have potential in front of you, waiting on the other side
of the Doors of the Great Mother."

He paused here, as if deciding to divulge a secret, somehow evaluating my
trustworthiness. His voice lowered, and he looked down to start speaking, his
head nodding as if assuring himself of something. "There is one death you
people have, and that is the refusal of your own life. Should you commit
suicide in ritual to destroy your soul, the self you had will be no more. It
is a decision only you can make, and bears no immediacy. It is the immediacy
and damning eventuality of true death that brings to life its meaning."

My eyes had focused through the floor, on some unnamed point in the earth, ears
my organs of perception while contemplating Daqsool's knowledge of death. So
death is not a state of being, but a state of not-being? I stopped, the
silence dispelling the dissolution of the physical world around me, and I was
snapped back into sitting before this behemoth of a being. I stuttered under
the sudden force of reality. "So, you're saying that one canna be dead, but
that in death, one no longer is?" A nod. "And that brings to life its meaning
, but," I paused here, now under the weight of absurdity, "though this is
a ridiculous question, what -is- the meaning of life?" He stood as he laughed,
looming again imperiously in defiance of me. He shook his head, the derisive
smile again creeping across it. "Having now an inkling of your life, you ask
me to take it away from you by telling you what it is? I will never understand
you people, or why you are allowed to exist like this. Truly, you exist, and do
not live." He plodded heavily around his desk and, placing a firm but
comforting hand on my shoulder, showed me the exit.

I began my trek south by west, moving towards the hub of Sapience, just north
of [New] Thera. I impulsively rubbed some berry on my skin and smoked the
skullcap in my pipe, owing to the usual perils of the area. Again, though,
something intriguing stopped me--two people were arguing, again. Instead of
swords, though, this clash was with words. One man was simply dressed in
mundane clothing, standing with his weight on one foot, looking as if he had
held similar poses for the past few hours. The other, surrounded by a
loathsome entourage of Chaos-spawned vermin, vaguely resembled a woman of the
elegant Tsol'aa, her form now hideously warped by the Chaos this occultist
apparently attempted to control.

Words came as blows, and fell heavy (and about as feverishly and well-thought
out).

"You're a failure. I seek potential, which is true power, -TRUE- freedom!
Dabble under the yoke of your laws and formalities and""You call that
potential? What can -you- know of freedom, a slave to the whims of your
bartered friends there?""I am not only reshaping within our world, but
reshaping that world itself! Such is the nature of Chaos!"

I stopped near to them and coaxed a field of protection from the shield tattoo
I wore, still mindful of the danger about me. I broke into their exchange with
a question as to what -exactly- it was they were even arguing about.

"Why, the purpose of life!" the Chaos Lady said. "This one" she nodded her
head at her counter-debator, "says that freedom is the purpose of life. He
claims that Ashtan, a city with laws and rules, is a city of freedom. To claim
that something so confining as the definition of 'city' could contain
'freedom!'" She snorted with arrogant contempt.

The man, patience blatantly wearing thin from her {I'm assuming} repeated
interruptions and stifling of his speech, stomped down his authoritative verbal
foot and said overly-loudly, so as to prevent interruption, "This occultist
claims that 'pure potential' is the purpose of life! More than that, she says
that using the powers of Chaos to unravel the very fabric of Achaea is the best
way to achieve that potential! She's ridiculous! Stark raving mad, if you ask
me!" She snorted again, with more arrogance and even more contempt.

Luckily, the tension between them held their conversation in suspension, and I
interjected again, directed at the fuming man. "So, wait, what you're
saying is that the purpose of life is to be free?" Apparently he interpreted
this as a high-order confirmation of his beliefs, and he gave an overwhelming
assent, detailed with how Ashtan had been working to perfect its laws to ensure
perfect freedom for all. "I see, but â€¦ laws restrict. How is that 'freedom?'
And, well â€¦ [how to put this] â€¦ but, what do you do once you're free?" He
rattled into about how equal freedom was the best freedom and paused when
struck with the second question. A great breath of deep thinking was drawn in,
but wordlessly exhaled.

"Ha! You see! He cannot even answer those questions! Potential, potential,
that is true freedom. Even the confines of the -laws of reality- can be
undone. And what then? Well, you reform them how you please! It's an art
I've nearly mastered." She patted an ugly thing next to her. {Bet that's her
sister, I chuckled to myself.} "Controlling reality about you--that's the
power of freedom!"

"But again, what then? I mean, if you control all that is reality, and you
make of it what you want, what then?"

"Why, you remake it better!" She said with a confident stance, hand-like
things on her hip-like things.

"â€¦ and when you make it perfectly? And even then, is remaking it na removing
the potential that the unmade reality had?" Her posture melted into a
bewildered effort to understand whats and hows. The din of argument was no
longer, and the two looked at me wistfully before going their separate ways,
which [to my humor] both led back to the gates of Ashtan.

I continued into New Thera to catch a rest from my feet, and catch up with my
thoughts. Were either of them right? I had asked them those questions as if I
knew the answers. But when you think about it â€¦ what does one do if they are
free? Doesn't acting on that freedom destroy it? Doesn't choosing destroy the
freedom of choice by making what-could-be into what-is-not? As Daqsool might
see it, the true death of possibility is by utilizing it?

I returned to my home, longing for familiar faces and structures; paths where
my feet could follow their own footprints. The domes of the city stood to
greet meet me as I passed down the Raphaelan Highway, even the surrounding
hills were a comfort to me. The gates embraced the world, and the shuffling of
the city brought back the kind of silence I was used to.

I had been gone for years, and Pericles greeted me with a smile that shone
through his armour. "Hello, Machiavelli! It is good to have you back in the
Jewel, with us again." He withdrew from his rounds and turned to face me,
steel plates gleaming in the sunlight. "The Royal Guard has missed your
presence."

I was struck with an odd sense of insecurity at that statement. Those words
brought with them the ideals and fundamentals of Shallam; the Royal Guard gave
blood to defend the thoughts and dreams of Shallam. Not wanting to draw into
question my loyalty, I asked the captain personally: "Pericles, why do you
serve Good, Light, and Order?"

The expression that had drifted over Harris' face when I spoke to him descended
beneath the helm of the captain, and Pericles stood in an odd posture, utter
confidence and supremacy over his surroundings now departed. "Good and Light
are the cornerstones of benevolence." He nodded his head slightly in his
armour, no longer rattled by the sudden questioning of the ideals he had woven
into the very fiber of his being. "Chaos seeks to destroy our world, our very
reality as we know it. Order seeks to take the rending destruction that is
Chaos and establish instead a firm construction of reality and its inhabitants.
I serve these three ideals to protect our world and establish within it a
civilization which is beneficial to all sapient life." His confidence was
moving--I longed to stand so firm and resolute in stance and in belief.

"What, then, is your physical ideal?" That really made no sense to anyone but
me. "I mean, what is the tangible result you're after?"

This time, he retained his confidence and composure. "Everyone is happy where
they are, and there is peace and contentment throughout the world without end."
A serene scene covered my mind, with smiles and laughter. The world was a
painting, brushed with astonishing precision, immobilized in time.
(Immobilized?) The world was dried oil which had shrouded the possibility of
the blank canvas. Everyone was a brushstroke, and with that, they could also
be a rock or a tree. No one -became- anything, everyone -was- something;
without becoming something, people were defined by their pasts. It was as if a
lightning bolt had struck, and the shadows cast were frozen in time, and people
were forever contained with in them.

I said to Pericles, "What would you want to try to do in such a world?"

He laughed warmly. "Want to do? This world is dreamt from perfection, and
there is nothing to want or to do." He smiled, perhaps still rapt by the
painting he had conjured. "Everything would be happiness and contentment for
all, always."

I replied: "But â€¦ does this na mean you have no freedom? You would be happy,
but you would na be anything else. The world would be so rigidly defined that
we would cease to be people â€¦ more like inanimate paintings."

He pursed his lips pensively, thinking firmly. "What of freedom, in that
sense? Everyone would be content and happy in every moment! What more purpose
is there to freedom than to achieve that?"

"What of the world and of the sapients? Would they na collapse into ruin?
Never would we see great works of art, great deeds, great heroes. Would we na
just mill around incessantly like leaves blown around by 'happiness'? Would we
na be utterly controlled by this vision of a God we had created, bowing to the
presence of 'happiness' and chasing it when it were absent?" This vision of
utopia had started to become faded and curdled, and slowly a feeling of
revulsion rose in me at the thought of being governed by feelings. Governed by
-my- feelings.

Pericles replied with more hope and less belief in his voice: "Well â€¦ perhaps
there -would- be a God of Happiness. A Figurehead for our devotion to the ideal
of 'happiness.'"

I thanked him for his time. I was thoroughly disgusted (which is how raw fear
manifested itself) at the thought of na only having my decisions in life but my
very -emotions- dictated by a God. The Fingernail of the Divine is nothing I
wish to become; I must be an extension of my own will.

The conversation had caused the walls of my home to grasp at me, and the wide
streets felt strangely claustrophobic. I left with haste, and hurried out past
a large group of armed guards. Introspective and deeply engaged, I had no ken
of the world as a blade was driven into me. Some miscellany having dispelled
my aura of rebounding, I cried out in surprise and was pinned to the ground
with a grunt from an unrecognized opponent. Before the sudden host descended
upon me, still hung over in reality with my internal battles, I mustered a
partial yell, "Wait."

Perhaps by the utter stupor in which I had wandered in or by the absurdity of
the request, the silhouettes above me were motivated to stay their hands,
though the blade still trespassed in my body, seated in the soil. In my
increasingly agonizing state, I managed a single word: "Why?"

A voice, smiling while dripping with the venom of sadism, chuckled at this.
"See your weakness? This is true strength, what we are. Spilling the blood of
the fools who aren't strong enough to exist and survive--that is what we do.
All those weaker than us must perish; we rid existence of the foolish who don't
deserve to inherit the world--that is our purpose."

I struggled to twist my mind about the beliefs rather than the blade of my
enemy. Surely, this was a voice from Mhaldor. I tried desperately to utter
the complaints I had known against those philosophies for so long. "What of
each other? â€¦ What of the weak â€¦ in Mhaldor? Them, you grow, but the
rest â€¦ of the world is a playground â€¦ playground for your hypocrisy. And
each other, you â€¦ one of you is stronger than the rest ... should na they be
the only one left alive?"

A puzzled look was quickly veiled by hatred as a blade whistled down at my
neck. In that moment I knew I would have time to contemplate this â€¦

I stepped to the light from the familiar journey through demise, having been
less struck with wonder at the miracle of rebirth with the words of Daqsool in
my ears. I had learned nothing from the Mhaldorian bastards who had killed a
man with a question, and they had learned nothing for me, certainly hearing
with deaf ears. They had learned nothing, and were as grotesque paintings,
souls mummified in preservation of the current state, unwilling to change.
They were the same rocks and trees of Pericles' work of art.

I wandered from the Cave, disappointed at the inconclusive "discussion" I'd had
with the Mhaldorians. I swore softly to myself about their ignorance, more
frustrated than angry, fueled by the moment I'd seen their existence as the
same painting as many of my home city. So many works of art â€¦ it sounded
picturesque, but people were no longer individuals--they were governed by
ideals trumpeted by Gods, and when those Gods were absence, they desired Their
presence. Not only were people unwittingly soulless marionettes, they
-desired- it. My trek for clarity had turned towards the bowels of Hell, and
questions were replaced with answers of grievous truth.

I wandered, safe in Divine Grace, towards New Thera again. I passed the
clashing of swords that rang out with warcries of the ideals fed to their
wielders, my growing contempt for their blindness weaving cataracts over my
senses toward their inanimation. I passed through Cottonwood Canyon, and my
reverie was interrupted by a gaunt woman swathed in scant clothing, eyeing me
purposefully.

"Something I can do for you, my strong man?"

"What do people want in life?"

"Oh, I can show you -that.-" She approached me, fingers snaking across my
chest, hand gently taking my own. I twisted and threw her off; her face slid
from intent to insulted.

I stopped and cast my eyes to her, my face dressed in a woefully pitiful
expression constructed through frustration. "Why do you do what you do?
What do you want in life that you should do this to yourself?"

She laughed gaily, either at my semantic dancing around of certain words, or
the undertones that she would be ashamed of her work. "I -chose- this
profession, dear. Sure," she swept her hand in a wide gesture, "you all may
think poorly of me, but I enjoy my place in life right here. It's my life, and
if I enjoy it, then screw you all!" She tilted her head to the side with a
satisfied smile at both her response and her tacky pun.

The clouds began to gather hastily, unnaturally, and soon rain began to fall
from the sky. The rain was thick and crimson, and as the blood flowed from the
sky, we hurriedly made our way inside her brothel, to a dimly-lit corner where
we sat. I waited a moment, ruminating on what she had just said, and then
asked, "But -why- did you choose this â€¦ profession?"

She laughed her vibrant laugh again. "It pays for my life, and in my job I get
all the pleasure, all the pain, all the drama I want." She smiled again and
said, "I bet you'll ask me 'Why?' again, won't you? The whole purpose of life
is to -live,- to experience reality's many facets as many ways as you can. I
love both the high moments and the depths of my despair, because without each
other there is neither. The drama that," here a naked woman being chased by an
inebriated man (also naked) flew past the door way. My companion laughed. "â€¦
obviously pervades a house like this keeps me occupied and entertained."

"So there you have it," she said with a tone of self-satisfaction, "I have all
of my fun, my fears, and my feelings made in this."

I paused almost awkwardly long. It all made so much sense, and it was hard to
grasp, as was the fact that I'd heard it from a woman who, an hour ago, I would
have scoffed at learning from. I was still slightly unsure of this woman, and
especially what she meant by "her feelings." I had a final question: "But, in
this business, how can you na forget what real love is?"

That same, lovely laugh. "You think I don't have a husband? That is how I
know it's true love--he turns a cheek to my ring staying out of my business,
and plants a kiss on -my- cheek when I put my ring back on. Despite anything,
he knows that my -heart- is his." With that, she leaned over and planted a
tender kiss on my cheek, stood up, and took her body further within the
brothel.

The rain of blood had ceased, and I wandered outside again. She -was- right!
The experiences, the feelings, the stimuli of life were life itself. I felt as
if I had unearthed a gem amid all of this mud I had been digging into. Living
with your experiences, feeling what you want to feel, a mellow hedonism, that
was the way to live life. The purpose of life was life itself. I felt as if a
burden had been cast from my shoulders.

I walked further down the road, and turned into the Black Forest. The familiar
"pop"ping sound of growing mushrooms greeted me, and soon I was lost, meandering
contentedly through the boughs, simply taking in my surroundings. I was so
self-absorbed I nearly stumbled over an old man seated beneath the trees. He
had a beard of flowing ivory, yellowing with age, and his eyes were cushioned
with bushy brows that spoke both of age and wisdom. His clothing was tattered,
but sufficient, and his hand held a magnificently carved walking stick. He
smiled at me almost knowingly.

"My good man, I have found the purpose of life! Life itself is the purpose of
life!"

He spoke softly, his tone mellowed by the knowledge of years. "My son, life
has no purpose."

I stopped short, smile ripped from my face with the new ideal I had invested
myself in rattled by this seated assault.

"My son, my son, life has no purpose. Surely you know this, though even now
you would make a God out of life itself. That is far better, at least, than
making a God out of a feeling or an object."

I sat, awestruck into silence, and listened to the man.

"It is true, life is what you make it. Life has no purpose though, my son.
There is no meaning to your soul prior to its creation. There is no right or
wrong way to live life. There is no vindication that pats you on the back and
assures you that this is what you should be doing. Meanings are only things
that people create out of nothingness. They come from people's thoughts, and
there you have it. The meaning of life comes from within life itself."

He offered me water and bread. I took sparingly, thankful for his gesture of
kindness. They were simple gifts, but I thanked him the same for the meaning
of his gift. He continued: "Meanings are nothingness from nothingness â€¦ but
does that mean they do not exist? I believe you are Shallamese, so I will
present it to you this way: the belief that the meaning of life is to destroy
the weak and gain strength through suffering exists to some, but is void and
folly to you. Such is the nature and nothingness of beliefs, which is all our
values are. How can you understand the nothingness of another, and how can
another understand your own?"

More radical than the last. I sat, understanding but at the same time
confused. Perhaps I was confused by the absurdity. We have no purpose. Our
values don't exist in the real world, they are -made up- by us. I hazarded a
question, almost fearfully, "Then our purposes of life, they're real only
to each individual who believes that is the purpose of life?" He nodded.

I was right back where I'd started. There was nothing of the purpose of
life--it just was whatever you wanted it to be. My face frowned in dismay at
the loss of any progress I had made in my thoughts and understandings. He saw
this, and said with a soft smile, "Do not fear that. Where you become greater
is the ownership of your nothingness. You may even do or believe what another
tells you to, so long as you do it for -yourself.- These things, these
beliefs, these purposes, are yours alone. Take responsibility for them, from
creation, through use, and in completion."

I blinked. That was a path I had never thought down: Not that all purpose is
anything, but that it is whatever -you- want that purpose to be, and that it is
your responsibility alone for it and its contents. My mind was whirling, not
yet understanding the implications of this. The man spoke: "Sleep on it, my
son." I glanced at where he was, but he was already gone. I had grown tired
from the dying, believing, and understanding. I closed my eyes and rested.

I awoke in the morning, and knew that it was time to head back to my woman and
my town. That word, "my." It was time to do what I knew in -my- heart was
right, and to tend to -my- duties and practice -my- beliefs. My thanks, old
man. I stood and went on my way, back to my life. No longer inadvertent
puppetry from Deities or others, decisions were my decisions. My thanks, old
man.