(futurity) miss wind-voice. will miss, miss soon, miss (future-tense)
filtration system 70% functioning and dropping
acrolight structural integrity 10% improved
wind-voice… why sad? why?
loss/change: repent. apology. contrition. regret.
"Chromia?..." Windblade's whisper is hushed.
Chromia murmurs something in her sleep, turns over and her hand lands on Windblade's hip. The hand is warm and a little heavy. Dreamy fingers stroke Windblade’s metal skin in a thoughtless movement, then they fall into stillness. She vents calmly, and her face is at peace. A few centimetres away.
"Chromia..." Windblade’s whisper turns into mere thought. "I love you."
Darkness pours slowly through the window. The world… is so big outside. Windblade’s gaze floats upon invisible waves of the quiet hum of the city. Metroplex… is it him breathing or is it just a collective breath of thousands of people sleeping, talking, drinking, coming home from evening shifts, people watching movies in the cozy havens of their apartments, making love with their dear ones, fucking around with strangers, crossing the air and the ground in pursuit of last businesses of the day that’s gone now already, visiting friends, thinking of the future, thinking nothing…
I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could talk… at all. But most of all, to you.
City lights flicker outside. A flood of tiny sparks of home windows, illuminated office buildings, not-so-busy bridges, glistering sidewalks, high towers, overpasses, pipelines, cables, gardens, thoughts… Metroplex.
But... my worries and sorrows are so little. So scattered. They are like the thoughts of Metroplex. Discarded, messed up, organic. When you ask me why I am sad, I can't even tell. I'm small, but my mind is like a building, like a whole city, like a Titan. Lost. I can't find myself. I’m a flood.
I focus on little things. Try to complete them, embrace them, enjoy them. Those that keep me going from one day to the next. Those that are not big planning, that are not thoughts of life. I build my world of them.
I miss Caminus, but will I ever go back there? To do what? I don’t know. Would I be less lonely? Chromia will follow, I know… But will my purpose follow? Or have I lost it somewhere, on the way of my journey? On the path of years passing by.
Should I stay here, though? With the old Metroplex? Be the voice of the city. That’s what I am. Far away from home, homeless wherever I go.
Yes, there are friends and allies. But what can I tell them? I talk too much already… Fierce words, strong statements, clear views, like knives and shrapnels. Frustration. I talk too much. Defending the world I wish existed, before even someone attacks it. Stupid believer. Keeping ideals alive. Not giving up, never. I talk too much, and they think I am funny. They think…
What can I tell them? Only clear and rational thoughts are for them. You have to stand ready to justify yourself all the time. To defend the city. To go into polemic, explain, to make things happen. Why, what, where, arguments, examples, data… You speak too general Windblade, you speak in ideas, you speak in riddles… You’re no fun Windblade, you take life too serious, you overthink, just relax…
I am the cityspeaker. I hear Metroplex’s voice. I hear his chaos. And he can hear mine.
He can hear my thoughts, too, sometimes. He’s worried. But… He is drifting. He stops by for half a second and whispers his compassion between one status report and another. He reaches out to me, but then he floats away again. To his ancient stars. He has seen so much. His time flows differently. I’m just a grain of dust in his life-time. His mind so great, so disturbed. But his thoughts make sense to me. They are real. I feel them.
He’s the last one I would ever want to make worried. I want to hug him so much. I feel how he hurts, old and broken. What else can I do than to fix him…? I fix him… for people to live in him. For all the symbiosis to go on undisturbed. Because that’s how the world is built.
Or are we just parasites feeding on his vast ancient body?
I'm here for those people. The inhabitants. The citizens. The dwellers. I’m not here for myself. But I am myself too. Though… I am lost. I can’t find myself really. Between his scattered thoughts and meaningless words of the people. People who talk for themselves.
And if… if I say something, something real, something mine, from my own depth… will they deem me crazy? Will they bother at all? Will they be just bored, scroll over and go to the next page? Or maybe they just won’t hear. They’ll pass by, go their way, and I’ll be standing stressed with my spark pounding and hands empty?
The words will blend with the hum of the streets, of footsteps, of other words. Words that flow like a river that takes everything with it, makes everything unimportant. Unimportant…
Why can I speak for Metroplex, but I can’t speak for myself?
To say something, whatever… it would take hours, years, ages… of deep focus, of thought, of attention. Of futile effort. It would be impossible to listen to. Impossible to grasp, to comprehend, to intake. To feel. I hardly have a grip of my own meaning, how can they, other people, give any sense to me? How can they know? What do they know?
And if I yet manage to speak for me… I may feel relief for a slight moment. Relief… the dream of dreams, the forbidden fruit. Relief. A moment of rest. A moment of oblivion.
But… but then, what happens next? Will the burden be shared or rather doubled? Will it all be pushed back to me? With compassion, with judgement, with knowledge, materializing the fears, the sorrows, the loneliness, the non-understanding. The everything I dread.
What if the hand on my shoulder becomes heavy? Pressing. Judging. Shameful. Not helpful. Pushing. A burden. A fear.
They'll think I am weak. If I am weak, how can I take care of them? Nobody wants a weak cityspeaker. They will make my weakness a sin. Poison the air with contempt and pity. They will remember nothing but this. But the weakness.
Maybe they’ll send me away, dismiss me, if it comes to the worst… Nobody wants a weak cityspeaker.
Once you say something, you have to act upon it, while the one who listened goes away minding their own business, full of well-fulfilled duty, leaving demands behind.
You said it yourself. And what you say becomes a truth for people. It becomes a statement. Your own beliefs will turn against you. Changing the world with your words. So, change your life now, you said it yourself…
If you don't you'll be judged. Because everybody knows now. That you’ve been weak, that you’ve been lost, that your mind is full of riddles. That your feelings boil and that your reason falters.
Miss… what do you miss Wind-voice? Is it your home Caminus, is it the sleeping Chromia, is it the aching spark of Metroplex…? Is it your sense of purpose, is it you - the child in you? The lost years, the past long gone, the future that never happened? All the chances you lost, all the time you’ve forlorn. The home feeling. Miss, what do you miss Wind-voice?
Light flows through the window painting stripes on the ceiling. The lines break and bend on shapes of scarce furniture of Chromia’s bedroom. Her warrior-shapes, tough and almost masculine, drown in the darkness below it. She murmurs sweetly in her sleep as she turns to the side.
Windblade’s eyes pierce the ceiling. The red tattoos on her cheeks almost hurt, as if they were done yesterday. It was supposed to be easier…
No. You've been judged already, but you will be judged even harsher. And harsher again. It’s all your fault after all. Always. You’ll never be good enough, Windblade… You are just whining instead of gathering yourself together, manning-up and doing something… doing it better. Even better. Shut your mind and pursue perfection.
Who wants a weak whiny cityspeaker?
It's easier when they know nothing. It’s easier when my thoughts stay just thoughts. My own secret garden, my private chamber of horror.
I wish I were Metroplex. I would lay down, half dead half breathing and I would think in numbers. In riddles. I would not need a speaker. I would just allow it, the slow death to sneak in without all those concerned faces vulturing at me, sorrowful in front of me, painful in front of the others, indifferent the moment they turn away. Metroplex is their home and that’s all they care about. And maybe, sometimes, they’re worried if they are right, if their logic holds. If they are on top in the battle of egos. This and nothing more. Why does he care for them so much, though? Why does he?
But I am myself only. I’m just Windblade. A tiny one, with tiny wings and tiny thoughts in an ocean of blabber. I am nobody, just a tool, to be used, to be useful.
I accept it. I’ve accepted it long ago. As long as I am needed. I accept it… But I… I would sometimes… Sometimes I’d like to release these tiny thoughts that are so… surprisingly heavy. To let them out, to wave them goodbye. Instead of shutting them up, hushing them, hiding them away, deep, deep, deep under. I want them to stop itching me.
Is that at all possible? Or is that who I am?
Chromia… You, of all people, my closest, my dearest… I so wish I could talk to you, Chromia.
Would you, though, understand *me*? Or would you try to find quick fixes, solutions, patches? To make the pain go away, disappear, to dissolve it in little gifts, warm cuddles and sweet kisses? Would you listen to me, not just my words, or would you… be just you?
I can’t blame you. I can only love you…
You hug me and hold me tight, you make love to me, you protect me… But… You think in words, like people. You know what you know, and even you can’t know me, no matter how well you do… No one *knows* me. Nobody wants to know *me*. The me inside of me. The little scared child in a dark, cold, wet cage at the end of a black corridor.
And you’re the last one I would ever want to make worried.
I guess, that’s just how the world is built.
Who cares for little thoughts of emptiness and missing? Tiny memories, smells, pictures, sensations. Unimportant.
What are you missing Wind-voice?
Life goes on.
A deep sigh fills the room. The air is motionless around them, until Windblade’s fingers trace carefully along Chromia’s arm down to her hand, letting their fingers braid together in a deep sleep. She presses her face to the wide shoulders of her warrior guardian.
"I love you, Chromia…"
With your eyes closed, you can still hear the city breathing. One breath at a time. A low hum of life confined in its streets and pipes and wirings. Life. Important.
The red tattoos are bleeding but there’ll be no sign tomorrow. There is never a sign.
"Chromia... I'm so alone."
enegron flow diminished in sector 9
xA26 valve 80% maximum pressure
...and the stars grew distant and lonely in their orbits...
...we saw but could not touch their wandering grace...
...and some are light and fleet of foot...
...and some as fierce as beasts…
...and some were paired forevermore…
...though fools called them the least.
wind-voice should not regret