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Dec. 14th, 2004 04:40 pmI've always thought the middle of the day was a fine time for lying in bed staring up at the ceiling.
Jet was like a mom: he hated it when I did that. "Spike, get up. Why do I have to do everything around here? Spike, you're lazy."
So sue me. I like being lazy. There's plenty enough times I'm not.
It gives me time to think, though. About getting out the front door, getting to the ship again. And wondering about what really happened: I saw my coat. They say your short-term memory is the first thing you lose in any kind of trauma. It's your brain's way of protecting you from what happened. From some stark realization that we're not invincible after all, that we're not infallible, that we're not immortal.
But I saw my coat, and I saw all my things. Jet's not sentimental enough to keep my stuff around just because he misses my dead ass. So maybe my ass isn't dead. It doesn't feel dead. Or maybe I am, and death is just another side of a dream. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing: my whole life. Maybe it never happened. Maybe we're just spirits creating our own existences from the fabrics of our imaginations, responsible for everything that happens or doesn't.
Or maybe that's just me reading too much nihilism or too much existentialism.
Why was the ship empty? Where were Jet and Faye? Where was it docked? Star formations said somewhere around Jupiter, but I'm not sure. I was too delighted over being there again and being there with Beth to even look at the computers. Stupid. This place must be making me soft, but... dammit, navigating's Jet's job, not mine.
I have no memory at all from the time I killed Vicious to the time I got to this place. None. Faye said it was a year, then she said it was a few months. That's a big difference. If it was a few months I can rationalize what happened, think the pieces back together. If it was a year, then I have no idea.
But like I said: it's a good time to stare up at the ceiling. I'll either figure it out or hear the story from someone else some day.
Jet was like a mom: he hated it when I did that. "Spike, get up. Why do I have to do everything around here? Spike, you're lazy."
So sue me. I like being lazy. There's plenty enough times I'm not.
It gives me time to think, though. About getting out the front door, getting to the ship again. And wondering about what really happened: I saw my coat. They say your short-term memory is the first thing you lose in any kind of trauma. It's your brain's way of protecting you from what happened. From some stark realization that we're not invincible after all, that we're not infallible, that we're not immortal.
But I saw my coat, and I saw all my things. Jet's not sentimental enough to keep my stuff around just because he misses my dead ass. So maybe my ass isn't dead. It doesn't feel dead. Or maybe I am, and death is just another side of a dream. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing: my whole life. Maybe it never happened. Maybe we're just spirits creating our own existences from the fabrics of our imaginations, responsible for everything that happens or doesn't.
Or maybe that's just me reading too much nihilism or too much existentialism.
Why was the ship empty? Where were Jet and Faye? Where was it docked? Star formations said somewhere around Jupiter, but I'm not sure. I was too delighted over being there again and being there with Beth to even look at the computers. Stupid. This place must be making me soft, but... dammit, navigating's Jet's job, not mine.
I have no memory at all from the time I killed Vicious to the time I got to this place. None. Faye said it was a year, then she said it was a few months. That's a big difference. If it was a few months I can rationalize what happened, think the pieces back together. If it was a year, then I have no idea.
But like I said: it's a good time to stare up at the ceiling. I'll either figure it out or hear the story from someone else some day.
