The Son of Blades has an extreme sense of faith in living on the edge. He is almost the archetypal sociopath. Unable to generate newness on his own, he tries to poke holes in the universes of others. Unable to create anything on his own, he tries to provoke reactions from others. Nothing is pointless, yet everything is pointless, to this nihilist. The Son of Blades will gladly use the sword as the wrong tool that does every job: the dismissal. Or interrupt, avoidantly, as if some words simply needed to fill the air. But it must be said, the Son of Blades is completely operating without a soul, and he knows it. The Son of Blades operates without a heart, and knows it. These things make the Son of Blades lie in bed late at night: living on auto-pilot. Unable to sleep, this poor creature simply revolves around his own choiceless days and nights. He thinks that every time he walks away from a situation, or wills to do so, his choices do not get taken away. But the fact is that his choices exist only in those situations. Because reality's power of suggestion over the Son of Blades is too large, he never gets the rest he needs. He never gets the time he needs to do anything intentional. Life is an eternal cycle powered by two impulses only: the stopping impulse and the going one. But the limit of these two acting in tandem is the dissolution of choices. The Son of Blades prefers to re-use materials rather than to choose them directly, and so his failure to sanctify choice permeates all the way down to his taste for materials. Failing to properly believe in his own individuality, the Son of Blades must resort to believing he will be saved by some future miracle. He does not realize that what will save him is deeper participation in the present, brought about by better rest -- the kind of rest that isn't afforded to dismissive souls.
Comments
Post a Comment