This week began quite oddly and remains odd two days in. I'm discovering with some frequency that, while being one of the oldest humans in this unit does have its advantages and is entirely bearable, it also has its moments where I find myself perplexed and wishing for older veterans to provide some much-needed perspective that I'm not removed enough from that age to offer.
Lorcan gets a new job, has a heart-to-heart chat, and learns about ghosts.
And also gets wedding things thrown at him.
Lorcan writes about puppies! ...okay, not really, he writes about Theramore.
"The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example."
- Benjamin Disraeli
For all flesh is as grass,
and all the glory of man
as the flower of grass.
The grass withers,
and the flower falls away.
But the word of the Light endures forever.
Commissions, philosophy, a window to the past.
Lorcan joins a new military unit; receives a job to do; is perplexed by names.
Reflections on marriage ceremonies, the overuse of green ink in old sacred texts, pickled kodo feet, and leg cannons.
Lorcan does not write lists today.
He writes letters.
It's that hour between very late and very early, that time when you know you should've gone to bed ages ago, but now sunrise is just around the corner, and you're going to stay up until the sun comes back. It's that hour, and I am sitting still in the Cathedral, my nightly meditation having come to a close. Sleep is an ugly thing lately, and I hate the idea of it, the idea of being in a dream world where there is no light, where everyone hates me and there ain't even a drop of rum to fill the hollows left by loves undone and promises broken.
