[html] Continued from here. EDIT: I just saw your note in RP Related after I posted this. So. Whatever you want to do with this.
"The sea," because it had never disappointed him, "A storm," because there was something so powerful, so profound, about the winds, the rains and the clap of thunder or a stroke of lightning across the sky. Each one of these were incredible aspects of nature on their own, but when merged together it was nothing short of "spectacular". "And the sky." because it never ceased to amaze him with spectrums that never lasted quite as long as he would like them to and yet the one that followed was always somehow so much more impressive than the last. Even the nights without stars or a moon to shine through, he had found an unspoken comfort in the endless darkness. "Does it?" he inquired rhetorically. It hadn't managed to bore him yet, so much to the point where this was actually a refuge, and all he wanted to do was escape the world for a breather. Survival probably sounded cut and dry, but it depended on where you were and on the company that happened to be in the vicinity. Maybe he had just ended up in all the wrong places, or maybe he was the entire problem. Maybe for someone else it would be an entirely different experience. Of course, not everyone was suited to the life he had lead for so long, either. Most had families and friends or wanted families and friends and would surely never choose a vagabond life.
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S'all good.
He nodded in agreement, envisioning in his head all of the grandeur he sometimes associated with the things the other was describing. The sea was a beautiful thing indeed, but it was dangerous too. Maybe that was what made it even more amazing though? He wasn't sure. Arkham knew that he thought it was a magnificient thing, but the depth of it escaped him still for the while. There were a thousand and one ways to describe it; he just didn't know all the words yet. A storm he had yet to really witness, at least not one powerful and thunderous enough to invoke awe. The sky? He could agree with that too -- it went on forever, but where did it go?
I d'no, the child answered, suddenly unsure of himself. He always felt like he was missing something. Isn't survivin' jess eatin' and drinkin' and not gettin' keeled? He managed that easily enough, especially now when he was still being fed by others, though he had begun to pounce some on crabs and seagulls on his own. Iss'ther'moar? It had seemed like a simple enough concept to him, but the other seemed so vague and mysterious about it that he just wasn't sure anymore.
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[html] i'll be quicker now. yay.
"It can seem a little more complicated sometimes. It depends on how you think about things." Your perspective. It didn't seem strange to him, to sometimes be on either side of the fence, or sometimes ― fine, most of the time ― teetering somewhere in between. He couldn't think of anything that he really cared about now, so surviving was just what Arkham thought it was, to him. When he had been younger though, it had been a different story. It had been a constant struggle, a constant battle with himself whether he should just die or keep living for what he felt amounted to nothing. Now he knew it amounted to nothing, and so it didn't matter, because nothing ever did. His life was pathetic, he knew, but he no longer cared. Caring didn't change what was reality, anyway.
Does that even make sense? he suddenly asked, turning his great head to face the young coyote, wondering if anything he was saying was actually meaning something or it was thin as dust; too vague to elicit actual thoughts. He knew he wasn't really giving answers; he didn't want to corrupt still-impressionable youth. The sable male couldn't ameliorate his life, but he wouldn't wish anyone to be any degree of what he was either. Arkham could do whatever he wanted in his life, he could believe it meant any number of things, and he could make it anything he wanted, and whatever Castor said could possibly have an impact.
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Well, he said contemplatively, How d'yu think 'bout thins? Castor was the one just surviving, right? So what did that mean to him? How kin it be mor' complikaet'd? It still sounded pretty straightforward in his head. Eating and drinking were essentials of life and avoiding death prolonged it. What else was there to it? Of course the factor of emotion and mental health escaped him yet. He knew not of insanity or falling in love or anything else that might complicate the world for a person. He didn't know about the madness that ran in his own blood or the dramatic love affairs that tortured others all over the world. Innocence was yet bliss.
I d'no, he said of the question, looking inquisitively at the 'Tears wolf. 'Kin y'splain more?
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[html] if this makes no sense, whap me.
"If you care about something, some place, or someone, survival isn't just survival anymore. When your only objective ―" he broke off for a moment, thinking of more simplistic ways to say just what he wanted to say, frowned, and then continued, "― your only goal ― is to survive, nothing has any meaning anymore and you eventually come to realize it even if you didn't think that way in the beginning. When you care, somehow life has a meaning. I wouldn't know much about that, though. You either care or you don't." And he really didn't. "Meaning creates reasons which create chaos. Suddenly everything you think is true, isn't." He had no idea what affect this would have on the young coyote, and who was he to claim this as the bottom line of reality? Arkham would surely learn to think for himself and decide what he might. His questions represented a growing intelligence. Whatever some scarred, black monster (whose sanity was arguably unverified) spoke of, in the end, bore no ground. It was an assumption he would not make ordinarily, but the kid wanted answers about his perspective, and he had no problem giving it whatever the consequences. It wouldn't be his problem when all was said and done.
"But then, maybe truth doesn't exist." It was so easy to make yourself believe anything, but there was no way to be assured that there was any concrete truth concealed in it at all. It was safer to not believe anything ― to never question and yet never stop questioning. It was simpler to believe that there was no truth at all, no concrete details, no solid ground. He knew the weight of emotion and the broad spectrum of aspects it was usually given free reign to control, and he would never give it control. He would never hand over that control. Surviving was the basics, consisting of the very fundamentals of life. If they became skewed or dysfunctional in his mind, he would die anyway, and it wouldn't matter anymore.
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He supposed that made sense in more ways than one. Meaning and caring were very important. It was perhaps why he and his brother didn't get along very well -- they cared about very different things and believed in different things also. Their meanings weren't compatible at all and sometimes Arkham wondered if Andrezej really cared about anything worthwhile at all. All of his brother's notions and goals seemed so wild and outrageous and he couldn't begin to think what he would grow up into. He had an imagination, but even that couldn't come up with something as sinister as the potential future.
Do you care? he blurted the question, staring intently at the 'Tears coyote. And then the dog pup thought about the last statement. Y'kin n'ver tell when some'uns lyin', he said decidedly, not really knowing the depth of his own words. In the end, there was no way to prove anything. Truth was dependant on completely on faith: faith in someone else's words or explanation, faith in your own beliefs, faith that there was some base truth to base other truths on top of. A logical premise. But they all believed something to some extent. If nothing else, they believed that the sky was blue except at twilight and that the Loony Luna would rise every morning, even if it were blocked out by rain clouds. They believed that there would be tomorrows, even if pleasantness was not a guaruntee. Those were the implicit things, but the truth? Well, maybe all their senses failed them. No one could prove that.
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[html] The yellow-eyed male could not think of anything that he truly cared about now, and even in the past. His perspective on the world and everyone in it hadn't changed as long as he could remember, and maybe it was his upbringing, maybe it was because he had never really had a 127.0.0.1 or anyone constant to care about, but in his mind, it didn't really matter. If he had a life as close to perfect as they came, if he had no reasons and no excuses, he would be the same. It didn't matter. Circumstance was not a factor, it was his state of mind, and it always would be. "No," It was easier to give a simple answer like "no" than to elaborate excessively and reason through it when it was all gray area anyway. Nothing was ever black and white. Maybe Arkham would have a different outlook on life. Parents, siblings and environment could all be effective catalysts.
"Everyone does it. Doesn't matter who they are." he rumbled his reply. Better he know it now if he didn't already, than to find out later and have to face repercussions which could have been avoided. If nothing else, it was better that he knew, and so would be able to gauge for himself how much faith to put in others, how much to trust, and how much of himself to give away without knowing just how many of the pieces would remain safe and sound. It wasn't entirely relevant in some ways, but in others, it was worth mentioning in all seriousness. "But don't let anyone drive you to hate." Because children were taught to hate. Castor had been taught to hate. Coyotes predominantly, but wolves, whatever, it didn't matter. Everyone was the enemy, just waiting for him, drawing their pistols in preparation for destruction. In time though, away from his father who felt it best to draw his weapons before the other side had a chance to let it cross their mind, he had grown to be more tolerant. Children should never be exposed to that kind of blind hatred.
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Why not? No was too simple of an answer, especially for a question like that. Of course, a furthered explanation might not have made any sense to the youth, but he found his curiosity there all the same. And in some ways, he knew that he simply wasn't at the stage where he could understand something like that. Meaning and caring and all of those philosophical matters of purpose and being were beyond the reach of many adults even, and so a child had very little change of making sense of it. But why shouldn't Castor care? It was an absurd question, really. But why not? Why not?
Hatred was an interesting question for the Lykoi, having been born into such a family. He did not know of his mother's harsh prejudice as it seemed to have faded somewhat in recent times, but he could already pick up the anger that came off of his own brother and some others of the clan. It was a bitterness he did not understand and did not really seek to. I d'n hate 'n'thin', he clarified almost proudly, I'm good. The concepts of good and evil were also strange to him, but he was young and it seemed like an idealistic image of the black and white that didn't exist had been born into him. Really, it was unfortunate that the same could not be said of all children.
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[html] "I don't know," he admitted, mildly — and distantly — thoughtful."I've never had a reason to care. Some of us just aren't wired with brilliant outlooks on life, hearts to give, or just the simple feeling that maybe there's a shred of purpose to life. Our lives would probably feel better if we did, but it's all the same in the end." And that was why he didn't care, because the great equalizer of existence balanced and nulled everything out in the end. There was no guessing or hoping or praying involved. It was all terribly futile, and it didn't matter who you were, what you were, what you did or how you lived. It didn't matter if you touched lives because in time they would be gone as well. It didn't matter if you loved because love was nothing more than emotion. And it sure as hell didn't make a difference if you gave a damn about this or that or this person or that place.
Castor fell silent once more and merely nodded, noting the pride in the voice and the face of the young boy. He might have smiled if it had not been terribly out of his character, allowing his approval to filter through. Arkham had his whole life in front of him, and though his youth meant being naive, he was not slamming doors or fencing off paths for himself as Castor had intentionally or unintentionally when he himself had been younger. He wasn't sure whether he envied the boy or he pitied him. It was difficult, wherin the two concepts merged seamlessly, and the large black dog and the small dark dog had perspectives that contrasted as night and day, varying with the weather.
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omg, short. D:
He thought it must be terrible not to care. Maybe everything was all the same in the end, but it certainly wasn't the end yet and it wouldn't be for a while. He could not care when he was dead, right? So if he wasn't going to care now, wouldn't he just be better off dead? Suicide was not really a concept he was familiar with, but it seemed like a pretty logical step forward from the absurdism that the other described. If nothing mattered, then certainly life and death didn't and you didn't have to bother much with death so it was the easiest, right? Arkham had absolutely no desire to be dead. Do you want to die? he asked bluntly, curiously, as innocent as ever and not realizing just how outrageously deep of a question he was asking. Then again, if he had, he might have realized that "want" wouldn't be a concept that Castor grasped very well if he was really such a nihlist.
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[html] I do not care <3
"If I wanted to, I probably wouldn't be standing here right now." This he knew was true. If he had wanted to die, there were ways to achieve that. And it would be easy. "I used to, though." And now what? He had stopped trying to rationalize it, stopped going over in his mind that it would be better if he just finished it if there was no meaning here and there was no meaning in death. Maybe now, he didn't even care enough to end it or to even bother thinking about it. In the back of his mind, there was the constant question of why he even bothered trying to survive, and just maybe it was because some shred of him was still an innocent youth like Arkham and it had just been buried years ago (well, not even two of them, but it felt like more), before he could possibly remember. Growing up seemed like such a whirlwind now that he looked back on it, and that could have been because of his constant moving around from country to country, continent to continent, place to place."Maybe I want to suffer." He threw everything away, he moved everything out of his reach, and made life as difficult as it could be. Was it on purpose? Or was that just how it was, the way he had designed it? This was the kind of rationalization that drove him to the point where he thought he was crazy. That too, was a possibility, and maybe it was everything that was wrong with him. But how did you know?
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Arkham had an extraordinary attention span for a child his age, but even he had his limits. And he was growing tired of this conversation. Castor seemed like a nice enough guy (probably because he didn't care to be much of anything else), but the meaninglessness of everything to him saddened the coyote pup to some extent and he hoped he would never turn out like that -- it seemed so utterly hopeless and he liked having hope, even if it ended up being pointless or whatever, at least he could feel as if it were worth something, right? It was that sort of decided "ignorance' that kept them alive, but he hesitated to even call it that. Maybe labeling everything as worthless was the really ignorant thing to do.
That's not good, the child said seriously, But if y'dun 'anna die no more, then you should at least be happier or som'in. Because he just seemed depressing.
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