08-28-2008, 09:41 PM
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In the end, nothing mattered. Laruku had told him that several times over, swearing up and down the nihilist path he followed, walking on knives and falling along the way. Perhaps that was true. Maybe nothing mattered, and the fact that he was still in love with Tsunami didn’t matter. The two of them, they weren’t anything special, really. They were just people who had been lost and needed someone, found each other, and now were too scared to own up or let go. And maybe, really, that was for the best.
The crying began again, and it drilled into his skull above the rain, above the thunder. He could stand it no more. “You can tell the sandman is on his way, by the way that they play, as still as the trill of a thrush in a twilight high,” he sang, quietly, soothingly. He could remember doing this with his children when they were sick, or unable to sleep. He remembered singing to his son, laying in the next room, maybe dying. “So you can hear the rhythm of the ripples on the side of the boat, as you sail away to dreamland. High above the moon you hear a silvery note, as the sandman takes your hand,” As his voice rose and fell, he realized that he didn’t feel anything at all. Maybe he had finally gotten his wish. “, so rock-a-by my baby, don't you cry my baby, sleepy-time is nigh. Won't you rock me to a ragtime lullaby…”
In the end, nothing mattered. Laruku had told him that several times over, swearing up and down the nihilist path he followed, walking on knives and falling along the way. Perhaps that was true. Maybe nothing mattered, and the fact that he was still in love with Tsunami didn’t matter. The two of them, they weren’t anything special, really. They were just people who had been lost and needed someone, found each other, and now were too scared to own up or let go. And maybe, really, that was for the best.
The crying began again, and it drilled into his skull above the rain, above the thunder. He could stand it no more. “You can tell the sandman is on his way, by the way that they play, as still as the trill of a thrush in a twilight high,” he sang, quietly, soothingly. He could remember doing this with his children when they were sick, or unable to sleep. He remembered singing to his son, laying in the next room, maybe dying. “So you can hear the rhythm of the ripples on the side of the boat, as you sail away to dreamland. High above the moon you hear a silvery note, as the sandman takes your hand,” As his voice rose and fell, he realized that he didn’t feel anything at all. Maybe he had finally gotten his wish. “, so rock-a-by my baby, don't you cry my baby, sleepy-time is nigh. Won't you rock me to a ragtime lullaby…”