Sunday, September 16, 2007

To Cliché: These Tacks are Made Of Brass.

So many an event has come to Young Mistress. And Young Master. Young Master broods on his own. I know my presence would only aggravate him. He grows strong with his will, though I do not think he knows it.

Young Mistress grows strong in her will, too, though not as one would imagine. A reflection of comfort. She is capable all her own, though she seeks others, mirrors, to relay said comfort to her. Her will is her own, though strengthened by the belief that others are around. A sign of weakness? No. Merely a condition that affects the vast majority of us. As such, she is never truly alone.

She has lost a close one.

Maya, for a brief moment, stops laughing.

Young Mistress’ current condition? Shit-faced. Not that that makes you a bad person. Her awareness of womanhood has also been reinforced. On a side note, I should applaud her stamina. And her creativity. I can smell the amount of effort she has applied to her previous, drunken-stress-relieving task. I will not speak of where, upon her person, those smells originate. Again, bad person, not making, et cetera.

I need to stop repeating myself.

Maya shows an attempt at a smile, her gaze returns to Young Mistress.

If my ears were as good as my nose I believe I’d hear a serpent’s heart rattling, shaking in concern for another. Shaking in a way it has not felt in hundreds of years.

She comes to me for advice. I only beget her melancholy. I say to her a truth: One must become lost, or one must become accustomed to losing those around you.
My heart won’t let me tell her the truth.

I am a bad mentor.

I am a good Hanumasha for I prepare her for misery.

But I am a bad mentor and I don’t prepare her for the ultimate painful truth: There Is No Point. Accept Pain.
For some: Create Bad Poetry.

If Maya weren’t so absorbed into Her Own Being she would laugh at me now.

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