Hidden Spaces - [Day 7, Risa]
Aug. 24th, 2009 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
allmhadadh "The men where you live," said the little prince, "raise five thousand roses in the same garden — and they do not find in it what they are looking for."
"They do not find it," I replied.
"And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water."
"Yes, that is true," I said.
And the little prince added:
"But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart..."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Harold had said he'd wait in the transporter room, some steadier after he'd vented his anxiety and sorrows, and that left Scotty and the light of two early evening suns that would not sink into the sea before he was gone. And for his part, he stood under the pier and watched the water, in the pale gold sand that had served as something of a bed and something of a comfort, and which would not likely be disturbed by living feet again anytime soon.
Scotty was good at finding hidden spaces, where a whole city could flow around them and yet not touch them, and this spot under the pier was one. Above, the crowds of tourists chattered or talked or played or relaxed over top his head on thick wooden beams. Below, he was insulated, and separated, and though he was only here for three or four days, he had grown attached to this place. He had bled here and laughed here, and he had been able to retreat here, and it was his own for the time that he had spent. Through the eyes of a man, it had been a fairly sensible shelter. Through the eyes of a child, he wondered if it would remember him; would miss him, as no adult would ever imagine such a space having feelings.
They were silly thoughts, and he knew it, but they came unbidden anyway.
He had resigned himself to leaving long since, but the actual time of parting wasn't made any easier by it. He called Aberdeen 'home', in truth, just because it was a useful tag. But he had never felt at home, not even there. He may have, with enough time, found that home here. But there was never enough of that.
He was certain he would never see this spot again, and he was likely correct. It would settle into some memory in the back of his mind, like the trail to Tennessee Beach and the Pacific ocean, and like the fireflies in the heavy blacks and greens of Georgia. He would continue on, into the some unknown future. He took something small from this place; a pretty pink and orange and blue and purple shell. He thought, too, he'd left something of himself here; childish dreams of living forever under a pier, Crusoe or Pan.
With a breath to steady himself, pushing down the childish sorrow, and the constant thrum of anxiety, he held his worldly possessions in one arm and his communicator in the other. And for a long moment, he closed his eyes; one last moment of sorrow to leave this place.
Then he opened them again and flipped open his communicator.
"Scott t' Enterprise. One t' beam up."
"They do not find it," I replied.
"And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water."
"Yes, that is true," I said.
And the little prince added:
"But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart..."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Harold had said he'd wait in the transporter room, some steadier after he'd vented his anxiety and sorrows, and that left Scotty and the light of two early evening suns that would not sink into the sea before he was gone. And for his part, he stood under the pier and watched the water, in the pale gold sand that had served as something of a bed and something of a comfort, and which would not likely be disturbed by living feet again anytime soon.
Scotty was good at finding hidden spaces, where a whole city could flow around them and yet not touch them, and this spot under the pier was one. Above, the crowds of tourists chattered or talked or played or relaxed over top his head on thick wooden beams. Below, he was insulated, and separated, and though he was only here for three or four days, he had grown attached to this place. He had bled here and laughed here, and he had been able to retreat here, and it was his own for the time that he had spent. Through the eyes of a man, it had been a fairly sensible shelter. Through the eyes of a child, he wondered if it would remember him; would miss him, as no adult would ever imagine such a space having feelings.
They were silly thoughts, and he knew it, but they came unbidden anyway.
He had resigned himself to leaving long since, but the actual time of parting wasn't made any easier by it. He called Aberdeen 'home', in truth, just because it was a useful tag. But he had never felt at home, not even there. He may have, with enough time, found that home here. But there was never enough of that.
He was certain he would never see this spot again, and he was likely correct. It would settle into some memory in the back of his mind, like the trail to Tennessee Beach and the Pacific ocean, and like the fireflies in the heavy blacks and greens of Georgia. He would continue on, into the some unknown future. He took something small from this place; a pretty pink and orange and blue and purple shell. He thought, too, he'd left something of himself here; childish dreams of living forever under a pier, Crusoe or Pan.
With a breath to steady himself, pushing down the childish sorrow, and the constant thrum of anxiety, he held his worldly possessions in one arm and his communicator in the other. And for a long moment, he closed his eyes; one last moment of sorrow to leave this place.
Then he opened them again and flipped open his communicator.
"Scott t' Enterprise. One t' beam up."
