[b]Jeff VanderMeer
Bodies could be beacons, too, Saul knew. A lighthouse was a fixed beacon for a fixed purpose; a person was a moving one. But people still emanated light in their way, still shone across the miles as a warning, an invitation, or even just a static signal. People opened up so they became a brightness, or they went dark. They turned their light inward sometimes, so you couldn’t see it, because they had no other choice.[/b]
I know that I didn’t. On the other hand, what does that even mean?
Ten years ago, we would have been writing perfect stories, but people’s attention spans have become more limited in these, the last days of literacy.
True, but, come on, really, what the fuck are perfect stories?
But there is a limit to thinking about even a small piece of something monumental. You still see the shadow of the whole rearing up behind you, and you become lost in your thoughts in part from the panic of realizing the size of that imagined leviathan.
All the way back to, say, before the Big Bang.
We all just want to be people, and none of us know what that really means.
More to the point, we all just are people, and none of us know what that really means.
Sometimes, too, other people gave you their light, and could seem to flicker, to be hardly visible at all, if no one took care of them. Because they’d given you too much and had nothing left for themselves.
Light being a metaphor for, well, you tell me.
I had long ago stopped believing in promises. Biological imperatives, yes. Environmental factors, yes. Promises, no.
Promises made? Promises received? Too close to call?