Chapter Text
Ever since Mikhail, Razalina, and Tiernan passed on, there’s always been one piece of advice that Mikhail gave me all those years ago that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,” he told me, tone as light and baby blue eyes as clear as ever, “remember that not everyone’s blazed the same path as you have.”
I remember staring back at him, trying to decipher what he truly meant. Initially, I’d just nodded and laughed it off, quipping about something or other as our conversation proceeded on. Certainly, that was one of our longer conversations; normally, he’d be busy with the other two, so we never talked to each other that much either. When we did, however, there was always something or other that stuck out to me. It always was one sentence, one phrase, or just very few words in general, really, that had to be said for him to make a heck of a lot of sense. He always implied much more than he said.
I’ve never been the open type when it came to my thoughts and opinions–well, I could be…I am, I suppose, when the moment calls for it–but I’ve always been reserved about my judgement and opinions for the most part. Perhaps it’d be too much for me to say I deserve a round of applause for keeping my comments to myself while tending to and mixing for loud and irritating customers, but it’s an unconscious habit that’s caused tipsy travellers to both grieve before me with grins on their faces and bore me to death with repetitive stories of their newfound, stagnant ecstasies that stem from a night that never ends. Of course, this habit must have been created from a need for self-preservation, as an attempt at staying calm while hearing slurred accusations of being some sort of spy or infiltrate, simply because I was privy to the griefs of floaty patrons. But was it really my fault when most of my knowledge was gained without my asking? So, yeah, don’t blame me when I can’t even walk away when a horrific secret’s about to be revealed to me over a glass of Emotional Indigo. But of course, Penacony is Penacony. To believe the words slipping out of anyone’s mouth is a rookie mistake, and to wholeheartedly believe in their successes is foolish.
What else can I do, except keep my mouth shut, my judgements to myself, and to keep slogging for Clock Credits? And naturally, I’m not talking about tips. Decencies can be parcelled out as unequally as you’d like, but tipping should be the basic one that everyone gets.
But of course, tolerance only goes so far, and my limit comes when my livelihood is no longer involved. An old dog’s gotta bite eventually, after all. How does it matter if someone’s behaviour is based off distant memories that took shape as a hard rock or swampy marshes? To be held accountable is to be pulled down to the ground state of reality, the one that people choose to remain blind to, in favour of frail joys and laughs. It’s a universal truth I’ve been convinced of, especially so, ever since I returned from the Land of Festivities all those months ago…yet with my heart numbed and voice cracked, I feel the shadow of hypocrisy creep up on me with how much I long for the universe to be at a…moral attention, I guess, for lack of better words.
And that shadow only creeps closer, my head spinning, my heart hurting, my fingers clutching–clamping–around the stem of a flute glass as I pour more SoulGlad into the cup. The bandages around my hand make it obvious, but the thoughts and memories of the birdie from Penacony that swarm my mind repeatedly are proof that I am a glutton for pain. Aeons, Sunday…that damn name makes me want to hurl. Yet here I am, swallowing my own shock, my own horror, at the way I feverishly scribble into this notebook. Sunday…the man who represented everything for which I have nothing but scorn, hate, and anger. The logical, perhaps even healthy, flow of actions would suggest that I leave him out of my memories, cutting him out and throwing him into a waste-paper bin.
But why am I sat here, then, writing the foreword of a memoir about a bird that ascended due to his descent?
No, Sunday has always been and will always remain exempt from my reaction. That man had the personality of a series of unbroken gestures, which lended a glittering property to him that I can only describe as bloody fuckin’ gorgeous. He always believed in the joy of rest Mikhail did, and maybe that’s what made all of it hurt–he had that heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, where ‘promises’ was the word that carried the entire sentence. There’s a lot of people out there that wouldn’t give this nature of his a passing glance, brushing it off as fickle family-manufactured temperaments…no, no. It’s infuriating, confusing, and hurting, but that man had a gift for hope, and a romantic readiness I don’t think I’ll ever find again.
He turned out alright in the end, that birdbrain…it wasn’t him. No, it was everything and everyone that prayed on him, that foul dust that floated in the wake of a dream, that jolted him awake and left him fast asleep at the same time. The dust was a constant in my life, yet watching his suspension had left me charmed in a way that left me hesitant to take any sort of ironic interest in the tall and short tales told over clinking glasses.