Tuesday WE: The Ferryman Responds To Eva

For You

I should not be able to feel you as deeply within myself as I do, thus I am afraid; your soul strength and presence slip into my skin and I feel you working within me, with me, changing the scars of centuries. Could this mean my duty is nearing its end at last? Confusion muddles me and I do not feel that to be so. I am not certain of anything, other than the taste of your quiet longing, bitter and metallic upon my lips, as you seek your relief.

The world, itself, shrinks imperceptibly for the living each time I am called. I was never meant to understand my onus, but only to obey and heed each sad task placed before me. There are beings beyond me, both greater and lesser than I, but I know nothing more of them than I do of "love" or "pain," and my knowledge is tattered, second hand, not my own.

Only those who take their own lives awash in self pity are able to summon me, a bargain they make, and they make it foolishly, carelessly, without thought. To waste themselves sparks a blue-hot fury within me; a thousand sharp teeth, greedy for purchase. I no longer want to lend any comfort or peace.

But, now, seemingly you, within the midst of your deep inaction and acceptance, have found your way through to me and I cannot embody your punishment, nor have I the desire to try. In the darkness of myself, something pulses, foreign. I feel it weak, but growing.

I have stood in gallows and at cradles, waiting for the whisper of breath that bears me forward, the well-spring that brings me to being. Yet criminal and babe alike have not felt me until the web of time has split and allowed my passage. Why can you, I wonder. How do you chase me through a shock of silver moonlight, pursue me in the fiery explosion of sunset?

This should not be.

Within you, I feel a resigned defiance, a willful sadness that coaxes an aria from the wind and were I capable of such things, I would weep and rail for you since you are unwilling to do so yourself. So, I settle like an eager mist upon the river east of you; to watch and wonder… and wait.

 

Something is not right…

 

About the Author ()

I am surly, cranky, blustery, heedless, voluntarily incontinent, higgledy-piggledy, anfractuous, and base. And I make a mean pot roast.

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