A/N: Watched "Where the Heart Is" today. That is a GOOD movie-
I really ought to get off my ass and read the book one of these
days. ^_^;; So, this is inspired by that, and also a little
bit by Terry Pratchett's "Small Gods," which in my opinion is
one of the best books that man has ever written (which is saying
quite a lot, believe me). Also slightly influenced by "Thief of
Time," another of his good ones.
. . . I badly need a library fix.
"Where The Heart Is"
"She is dead. You are alive. So live."
~ Dream; "The Sandman"
"Here," she says softly, pressing your hand to her stomach.
"Feel it? That's where the heart is."
You do. You don't want to say so, though, because you're
afraid, like always, that if you get too close you'll screw
something up. Afraid that you'll hurt someone, or get hurt
You look up at her and try to say it, but you can't. You've
never been able to. Maybe you never will be.
But you can feel it. The heartbeat, the place where life is
growing. The life that will begin the resurrection of your clan-
and you don't even care anymore. The only thing that matters
is the life itself, and the life of the one carrying it. The
clan can go to hell.
People matter. Not bloodlines or revenge or any of that . . .
just people. And life is short, so you can't waste it worrying
about things that aren't important. Sometimes the unimportant
is priceless, but sometimes it's just that: the unimportant.
The difference between wasting a morning in bed and wasting a
lifetime searching out justice.
Because justice is all well and good, but you can't live for it.
You have to live for the small spaces, for the hot sheets and
bright lights and cool darkness, for the silk and satin dreams
that outlast tarred canvas, for the pain from losing the first
love and the joy that makes every love feel like the first. You
have to live for dancing, for singing- even if you can do
neither- for sex and rivalries and the way the earth smells
after it rains.
For the sake . . . of the children.
You cannot waste your life.
So screw vanity, screw pretense and appearances, and just live,
like you're supposed to. You are not here for the sake of the
dead. You are here to protect the small spaces, the dark places
deep inside the soul that cry out for love. You are here to
remind her that she is beautiful, to raise this child she
carries, to befriend the man who was friendless for so long (in
your own peculiar way, that is, which involves beating the shit
out of each other). You are here to live, to fight, to become
stronger and change the destiny of this world that is dying in
its own strange suicide. You are here to master yourself and
nothing else, to be a god to your beloved, to worship that same
beloved, to live and live and live and somehow in between
everything else come out without dropping any pieces of your
soul. Unless . . .
. . . unless you want to.
Unless you want to cut them off and sew them up neatly to other
people's. A bit of you tucked neatly into him, into her, into
the child and your teachers and maybe you can protect them this
way, if they own a little of you.
But you are so scared. Because you think that you'll break
them, or that you'll hurt them, or that they'll hurt you.
You love them. Why can't you trust them? They're strong
people, or else they wouldn't be able to care about you. And
they're loyal, believe it or not, so they wouldn't hurt you on
purpose. They might cause you pain, yes, but never
intentionally- and if they do, they'll always be sorry. After
all, aren't you sorry when you hurt them?
"You hear it?" she asks, tucking her hair behind her ears as you
spread your fingers over the swell of her belly.
" . . . yeah," you say quietly, pressing your ear against her
stomach. "I can hear it."
* ende *
. : defend the small spaces : .