[MTM] January Topic: Choice
Jan. 27th, 2008 04:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changehistoryAny change, any loss, does not make us victims. Others can shake you, surprise you, disappoint you, but they can't prevent you from acting, from taking the situation you're presented with and moving on. No matter where you are in life, no matter what your situation, you can always do something. You always have a choice and the choice can be power. - John Donne
The nightmares still came, but he worked to ignore them as best he could, waking up in a cold sweat, leaving the bed and anyone who happened to be in it. He moved then in silent ritual, through routines, finding comfort in the familiar patterns of various kata. Old habits, old training, some forms lost but for the few who remembered them in muscle and bone and synapses. The sword, an old one if not the sword, flashed when he moved, catching the glint of fire and moon, feet quiet on honey-colored wood floors. Shirtless, heedless of the cold that blew in from empty windows in a semblance of fresh air, sweat glistening despite it, he pushed himself harder, faster, until exhaustion made his arms and legs heavy and the sun rose over brick buildings and fire escapes and glistened on new-fallen snow.
There was coffee and croissants, fresh from the bakery around the corner, buttery, flaky, sometimes filled with chocolate so he could imagine he was back in Paris. Sometimes there was company, warm arms, soft smiles, kisses and laughter, scolding about the open windows and coaxing back to bed. Sometimes the hours stretched, quiet except for the city sounds that rose up as the world came to life, and music pounded and dogs barked and he remembered either way that he wasn't alone, locked away. Not anymore.
Freedom meant more now. Every moment he had was his own, to do with as he pleased. He'd never relished it so before. Not that he hadn't been in jail for this or that in the past, but he'd never been imprisoned so long, so controlled, and by people he couldn't escape by faking his own death. The regimented control had been new. What he ate. What he wore. What he read. When he got to see the sun. Always watched, sleeping, eating, using the rest room even, like a rat in a cage. Pills and knives and electricity and he had no say in it, ever. Not even the British navy had treated him that way, and it snapped at his heels even now.
But he was free, and the scalding heat of coffee over his too cold throat proved that, sweet and bitter and denied him all that time. Every choice he made now, to stay, to go, to love, to hate, to sleep, to rise, to fuck, to read, to watch TV, to run, to go to the park, to go to Europe, to seek revenge, to learn to forgive, to find a compromise--they were all his. His responsibility. His time, his moments, his life, to do with as he willed, to reshape a renewed world from the fragmented pieces of the old, or strike the final match and let it all burn as he walked away and never looked back on the smoldering ashes.
He had the power now. Whatever he chose, he hoped they trembled as they waited. They should.
The nightmares still came, but he worked to ignore them as best he could, waking up in a cold sweat, leaving the bed and anyone who happened to be in it. He moved then in silent ritual, through routines, finding comfort in the familiar patterns of various kata. Old habits, old training, some forms lost but for the few who remembered them in muscle and bone and synapses. The sword, an old one if not the sword, flashed when he moved, catching the glint of fire and moon, feet quiet on honey-colored wood floors. Shirtless, heedless of the cold that blew in from empty windows in a semblance of fresh air, sweat glistening despite it, he pushed himself harder, faster, until exhaustion made his arms and legs heavy and the sun rose over brick buildings and fire escapes and glistened on new-fallen snow.
There was coffee and croissants, fresh from the bakery around the corner, buttery, flaky, sometimes filled with chocolate so he could imagine he was back in Paris. Sometimes there was company, warm arms, soft smiles, kisses and laughter, scolding about the open windows and coaxing back to bed. Sometimes the hours stretched, quiet except for the city sounds that rose up as the world came to life, and music pounded and dogs barked and he remembered either way that he wasn't alone, locked away. Not anymore.
Freedom meant more now. Every moment he had was his own, to do with as he pleased. He'd never relished it so before. Not that he hadn't been in jail for this or that in the past, but he'd never been imprisoned so long, so controlled, and by people he couldn't escape by faking his own death. The regimented control had been new. What he ate. What he wore. What he read. When he got to see the sun. Always watched, sleeping, eating, using the rest room even, like a rat in a cage. Pills and knives and electricity and he had no say in it, ever. Not even the British navy had treated him that way, and it snapped at his heels even now.
But he was free, and the scalding heat of coffee over his too cold throat proved that, sweet and bitter and denied him all that time. Every choice he made now, to stay, to go, to love, to hate, to sleep, to rise, to fuck, to read, to watch TV, to run, to go to the park, to go to Europe, to seek revenge, to learn to forgive, to find a compromise--they were all his. His responsibility. His time, his moments, his life, to do with as he willed, to reshape a renewed world from the fragmented pieces of the old, or strike the final match and let it all burn as he walked away and never looked back on the smoldering ashes.
He had the power now. Whatever he chose, he hoped they trembled as they waited. They should.
