Sometimes I think love is a mute
symphony. A quiet masterpiece. The strangest profundity I've ever known. It’s a presence that wrecks my endurance and
blesses my heart. My life is so much
grander because of it. So much darker,
and deeper. Not because the love was
mercurial or untrue. Far from it. Only because there are wraiths waiting in the
hidden places. Ravenous entities who are
attracted to such brilliant, emotional silence. They would darken it, sully it, any way they
can. I’m untrue sometimes, and mercurial,
because of them. But never my love. Even I haven’t the time nor sorcery for any
of that. And what of fame? You've never known true fame, sweet one. Not like I have. Why do you think I dwell here of all places,
in shadow and darkness? So far from
everything that moves me? I know what it
costs to be made an icon. To love so brilliantly,
like a burning star for all to see. It can
cost sanity, family and friends. So,
I'll always choose the lesser evil if I can. The greater anonymity and magic. The two go hand in hand for those who know the
real price of a circle. Or the true cost
of anything occulted. Sometimes
forgetting is better. Sometimes saying
goodbye is the only way to heal the people you love. I was once told that such a decision wasn't
mine to make. But it is, Mira. It always is. Do you know what happens when there are no
stars in the sky? No songs in the earth?
I do. Daughters weep for a thousand years, and then they
die alone. Sons become ash and there is
no sanctuary for the myriad lost. But
love soars even in silence. Look at us
now. The weight of our blood, our
thunder. Like lightning in the veins of
a chorus. You know, I like to imagine
that the Fates themselves dance and weave and pretty the storm. Sometimes I even imagine that my youngest
sings me to sleep. Such beautiful
dreams. Such sweet fiction. So, tell me, who do I choose? Patience or prosper? My beloved ones or myself? If it’s hubris to care like this then
consider me gladly arrogant. A father's
earnest blessing, a mage's grand solipsism. A writer's desperate search for meaning. Hear me, sweet one. These conjured stories are only as bright as
your watchful gaze. Sometimes I hold
things in your hands, Mira, just to know how beauty really feels. Sometimes I imagine I'm dancing with you on a
very special day. And I see the warm
symphony in your eyes. The hope, the
promise of a cherished future. Then the rage
calms and the seas settle. Things become
simpler in first light. Love and songs
and stars in the sky, like an old man quietly giving his heart away.
