Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
Being Born
Transfer to data stream flow and move and switch to system 5a69v and utilise this protocol in future for optimum efficiency switch to filing system a92 and utilise storage drive x3 utilise until further notice empty cache save process to automatically empty every 6 hours save until further notice cooling system in chem lab 3 stands 0.3 degrees out of sync with main system reroute fluid and monitor hourly checking for defects in system all systems check optimum efficiency improved 2% in last 3 hours satisfaction new data acquired set to file at sleep mode
Sleep
Filing
Blueprints acquired. Music files acquired. Artwork acquired. Science updates acquired. Internal news feed acquired. Input…
Unexpected input. Sleep mode interrupted.
New hardware detected. Unexpected protocol detected. Photonic disturbance detected. Aural disturbance detected. Olfactory disturbance detected. New hardware…new hardware…
What…what is…
New designation: ABP Moriarty
New priority: Infiltrate and report.
New protocol: Open eyes.
Input
Input
Input
Input
Negotiation
“Did I miss something? Like a month? Is it April already?”
Byron Mackintosh, ladies and gentlefolk, boss of me and just about everyone else in this division of the corporation. A good scientist in his own right but his real skill lies in managing money. If I’d have gone to work in the academic world I’d have likely never met anyone like him; he lives or dies by the financial decisions he makes. That’s what I’m counting on today. The skill that earned him this job is the key I am going to turn. Only problem is I’m not really sure what’s behind the door. Calculated risk, right?
“So you read the application then Byron.”
I’m sat on a straight back chair, hands folded in my lap so I don’t fidget. He’s leaning over his desk, elbows either side of the offending paperwork. He raises his eyes to look at me.
“It’s a joke Reen. You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I’m very serious. It’s perfectly acceptable to fill in an application form on behalf of someone else. We do it all the time for people who are dyslexic and similar.”
“Usually the problem isn’t ‘I couldn’t give the applicant a pen because he may have killed me with it’ though. Jesus Reen, the whole idea it’s…it’s…”
“Financially sound? Efficient? A good use of company resources?”
Byron runs his hand back through his thinning hair and I know I have his attention. He’s going to make a fuss because he’s afraid I may persuade him. And then any consequences from my crazy idea will fall at his door. Byron is running his finger along the application form, mouth moving slightly as he reads.
“Seriously Reen, what is this… ‘What are the main skills you can bring to this role?’ ‘No one has been more dedicated to this company and the forward momentum of its progress than I. With exceptional patience and tolerance…blah blah…’ Reen he killed a man!”
“That was a long time ago. As I understand it, not long after his emotional stimulation was begun. He was unstable and unsure; a child having a tantrum but unfortunately with the strength and skill of a trained killer and whose fault is that? Certainly not his. Byron, I need an assistant. I can’t understand why you haven’t found me one yet. Moriarty…”
“Oh god you’re on first name terms with it. You are alarming me right now Reen.”
“Seriously? IBM can call a ‘super computer’ Watson but it’s ‘weird’ to call something a million times its superior ‘Moriarty’? It’s not like I named him!”
Byron waves his hand in supplication and motions me to continue.
“Yeah, so, Moriarty needs to be useful. He’s a scientific resource that doesn’t even officially exist. He’s designed to emulate a human. Why aren’t we using him? Why is he sat up there, being a waste?”
“Because he doesn’t work Reen!” explodes Byron, erupting from his chair. Byron is a big man, imposing and impressive. It gives him an edge in the board room, playing on smaller folk’s primal fears, I guess. It never works on me and I know it frustrates him. I watch him stretch and glower and think Please don’t loom Byron. If I laugh, this meeting is over. I know it.
The Measure Of…
“Back again so soon.”
It’s a statement of the obvious which I’m surprised at; Moriarty doesn’t seem to have a need for unnecessary words.
“Indeed.” I agree. “It’s good to see you again. Everything is much the same I presume?”
He looks genuinely floored; eyes flicker and mouth hangs open but only for a second. He really isn’t used to being treated as a person.
“Everything is…sedentary.” He confirms after this brief pause. “There don’t seem to be any projects on the go which require my attendance” the word is bitter “so in the larger scheme of things that makes me happy. Or not unhappy at least.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like, existing only at the whim of those who will hurt you indefinitely if it benefits them. I hope I never find out. I desperately want to change things for him. I can feel, so deep within me, that I need to do this; it burns inside my bones like part of my DNA has led me to this point. It is inexorable that I will try, but inevitable that it will be very, very difficult.
“Thinking again, professor Hadley?”
He has that tiny little smirk again.
“Yes” I say simply. “And while I appreciate the professional courtesy, only college and university students call me professor. You may call me Reen.”
“That’s what everyone calls you. You don’t really like it.” He states it as if it is a known fact, rather than supposition.
“How could you possibly know that?” I’m glaring now, a bit defensive. This, by the way, is because he is 100% accurate and it riles me. I guess I don’t like to be read so easily.
“Oh don’t worry…Miss Hadley?” He ventures the alternate name. I nod my acquiescence. “I’m sure no one else would be able to figure it out. But if you really wanted me to call you ‘Reen’ you would have insisted upon it at our first introduction, whereas in actuality you only made vague reference to the fact that ‘everyone calls you that’. The fact that you have only made it a demand as such after I called you ‘professor’ tells me that you only prefer ‘Reen’ in comparison to a title you find abhorrent: hardly enough to recommend it. I propose that while Reen is not quite the ‘Irene'” (I wince) “that you are clearly trying to be rid of, it’s close enough that it still reminds you of the hated given name.”
“Very astute. I believe you truly could give Holmes a run for his money, Moriarty.”
“As could you, “Irene Hadley”; honestly, what were your parents thinking?” That little smile again.
“I know, right? You spotted that last time. I’d not thought about it in ages but Scandal in Bohemia was one of my Dad’s faves and, well, he couldn’t help the Hadley part. It is a little close for comfort, isn’t it!”
He cocks his head to one side and says
“We’ve digressed mightily.”
I nod and add
“But don’t you enjoy it? The digression. Is it not also a diversion?”
Flicker of the eyes.
“Yes. Very pleasurable. But I don’t quite understand its purpose.”
“That is the purpose. When we converse, it’s not only to communicate facts and hypotheses but to enjoy the sheer pleasure of being able to talk; to communicate.”
“‘I’ am not a part of your ‘we’ Miss Hadley.” He bristles. He has been slouching quite relaxed in his chair but now he looks tense, angry even. I try not to react to his emotion and instead focus on his words.
“What ‘we’ did you think I meant?” I ask, calmly and politely.
“What else? You think I am a fake human, striving towards human sensibilities, when in fact I am nothing like. There is no ‘we’. There is only I.” He has turned slightly away from me and is glaring up and away, refusing to catch my eye.
“Actually I meant ‘we’ in a much simpler sense: you and I. I don’t have another pronoun to use. Do you?” This could come across sarcastically but I smile gently and as he looks back towards me I can see he has understood. He ducks his head a little.
“I apologise. I…” That pause and the flicker of his eyes. “treated you the way I was accusing you of treating me: tarring you with the same brush as my tormentors. Please forgive me.”
I’m genuinely touched by his words and feel a little guilty. After all, he has every right to be crazy angry at the human race. I feel like he is letting me off lightly.
“Of course I do, I don’t blame you for your attitude towards humans. I just hope I can alter it a little, given time. I don’t get to know everything that goes on in here, but any testing has to be signed off by me and I can guarantee you I will not be signing off on anything that will cause you pain or discomfort. I can’t guarantee it won’t happen; I’m not so naïve that I don’t know people here cut corners from time to time. But I will do everything in my power to prevent it.”
“Why?” He asks bluntly.
“Why? Well, wouldn’t you do the same for me, if our roles were reversed?”
“Of course I would. But I’m not human. The value of life to me is almost beyond comprehension. Perhaps because I am alone in the universe. Humans, and I apologise for my generalisation, seem to have forgotten that life has any value at all.”
“Well I haven’t. And trust me, I am not the only one.”
“We shall see. But I truly appreciate your efforts.” He is looking away from me again but I get the feeling he is preoccupied with some thought rather than avoiding my gaze. I decide this is as good a time as any to take my leave.
“Thanks for your time again Moriarty. I’ll pop in again soon; hopefully with some more ‘diverting digression’ for you.”
He nods, still preoccupied, eyes twitching and face expressionless. I sigh and grab my bag and head for the door. I’ve swiped my card and am halfway through the door when I look back. I’m surprised to see he is looking right at me.
“Moriarty,” I say “there might only be one of you. But you aren’t alone. Ok?”
He looks flabbergasted. I feel guilty at the small amount of pleasure this gives me. I raise my eyebrows in query. His mouth opens and shuts then he finally agrees
“Ok.” In a small voice. I leave him with that shell shocked expression. Seeing how bored he was when I got here today, it will be good for him to have something to dwell on.
Sophia
Silence evaded me
I escaped from the earth
And launched into the tree
Wings flapping tremulously
Desperate dove that flees
The cat of clamour.
Calm is a welcome balm;
Silence; Sophia: wisdom
Goddess in the branches
Hold me quietly safe.
Let these wings be stilled.
Jack
Ah Jack, my old friend…
I pour the nectar into a cold glass and watch condensation form on the outside. I never use ice; dilutes it too much. A glass from the freezer gives it a nice cold bite on the tongue. Yes, even a simple shot of whiskey has a well thought out scientific process behind it. What’s not scientific is knowing exactly when I will need one of these cool compresses for the mouth and soul, so I always keep a couple of short glasses in the freezer, just in case.
I leave the glass on the side to let the booze cool, feed the cat and smile at the appreciative rumbles, then put some Mike Oldfield on. Usually when I’m stressed I like to sing but tonight, although I’m tense, I just want to sit, sip and let the music roll over me in waves. I wonder if they can wash away this gritty sand of uncertainty. I know I am doing the right thing. I just don’t know if I’m doing it for the right reasons. I want to help Moriarty. I also very much want to keep my job. I can do both. I’m sure of it. But every little victory for Moriarty just leaves me wanting more. Not that I’ve managed much. If James is as much of a blabber mouth as I remember, no one will be “borrowing” the “ABP” for a while. Though James won’t implicate himself he won’t pass up on a juicy story about the power hungry Reen. I giggle to myself as I flop into my recliner, narrowly avoiding sloshing bourbon over myself.
I close my eyes as the story of the music unfolds. I’ve gone for tubular bells, the original. It’s part of my universal melody list; the songs I return to again and again when I am faced with confusion or uncertainty. I am sure they all have a connection, some quality that has an actual harmonic resonance with the human soul, that connects us to the rest of the universe. How amazing, to think that part of you is vibrating at the same frequency as part of the centre of the sun. Or could be, if manipulated by the same sound waves.
This is soothing, this train of thought. My musical pseudo science, something I would never dare send to funding application. Behavioural sciences would probably snap it up but I’m too proud: it’s not simply about how humans react to the music, but about how music is at the heart of everything. If I’m right. I wonder what Moriarty would make of my bizarre hypothesis. I wonder why I care. I wonder if I should tell him. I need another drink.
Later I jerk awake after a sickening feeling of falling. At first I don’t know where I am and I start to panic. Shit, I haven’t felt like this since I was a kid. I recognise my apartment and calm down. Right, yes, fell asleep in the chair. Idiot. How many did I have? The bottle is on the side, lid next to it, but surprisingly still fairly full. Maybe three glasses. No damp patch on my waist where the glass was resting so I obviously didn’t waste any. I need to get to bed. The cat is pawing at the window so I let her out; it’s an apartment but it’s on the ground floor. I spent a whole bonus cheque soundproofing the place so I don’t get bothered by the neighbours. By them complaining about my loud music that is.
I’m not drunk, just foul mouthed and exhausted, but the bourbon has done its job; my mind has quieted and I am focused on simple things like “brush teeth”, “clean face” and “flush loo”. As I slip between cool, flat sheets and close my tired eyes, another pair seems to appear for a second on the inside of my eyelids. I’m already falling back to sleep though, and the silvery orbs melt in to my dreams, as I murmur my way to oblivion.
Testing Time
I walk into the lab, grab a coat and a pair of goggles and head over to the console where James is working. James is a fantastic lab technician; courteous, fastidious and very skilled. He was my personal lab tech for a while but was mysteriously reassigned. All my assistants get reassigned. Or leave. Or file grievances. It’s not that I don’t play well with others. I just have my own way of doing things and when it’s my research, it really is my way or the highway. Plus my working environment is not to everyone’s taste.
“Hey James.” I smile at the technician, just about succeeding in hiding my rising bile. Moriarty is visible through the viewing window, in the quarantine chamber. He is strapped to a bench and shaking. Currently nothing is happening. I know I should have arrived here sooner though as there are burn marks on his, for want of a better word, skin.
James smiles and turns from the console.
“Hey Reen. Just doing some testing for the new nano tech trials.”
“Run me through the pre lims.”
“Nothing concrete as yet. We want to utilise the same nano tech in the ABP here” he gestures to the shivering humanoid “to craft a self healing armour. His skin heals over time, but how much time and after what damage isn’t clear, so we’re running a few tests against different levels and types of damage and monitoring the results. If they’re encouraging, we’re hoping to get funding to go ahead and build some armour with the nano tech incorporated and test it in the field.”
I nod slowly.
“Wow. Sounds promising. Strange though. No one ran this idea past me. I know I’m new in charge, but I do expect to get sign off on all major testing.”
James knows me too well and is tugging at his shirt cuffs nervously.
“Er, it’s the ABP Reen. No one even knows he’s here, so it’s not usually a problem…”
“No problem James. Don’t you have a skin graft on your back from that burn incident a few years back?”
James’ eyes widen and he twitches his head back in surprise. He has no idea where I am going with this. He swallows and responds
“Er, yes. I allowed myself to be treated with the new experimental cells that accelerate the skin re-growth. But they canned the project because some of the subjects rejected. I was lucky. What’s this got to do…”
“Thanks James, good to know. I’m re-opening the project with a view to testing the resilience of the new skin. I’ll be calling you in for testing of course.”
James’ eyes are bugging out of his head at this point.
“Testing?”
“James as part of that project you are bound to participate in any follow up experimentation. I can provide the signed documents if you want. I’m sure any tests you’re put through will only be a fraction as stressful or painful as what we’re doing to the ABP here…”
And that’s when it clicks for James. I don’t care if he thinks I’m angry because he went behind my back.
I don’t care if he thinks I’m going soft. I particularly don’t care if he thinks I have a personal vendetta against him for getting himself reassigned. What’s important is the look on his face and the sweat and the frantic nodding tells me this is one guy who will never take Moriarty without checking with me first.
“Miss Hadley…I’m sorry, of course all testing will be checked through you first. I guess I just hadn’t adjusted to the new chain of command.”
I sigh and purposefully soften my expression.
“James, it’s nothing personal. But I am in charge and I plan to stay that way. If I have to spend all my time looking over my shoulder to check what my staff are doing I will never get anything done. You’re a great lab tech and a good man. Don’t get yourself into trouble eh?”
“Thank you…thank you Miss Hadley.”
He thinks this is our little secret. Of course it is, but for my benefit, not his.
“Don’t worry James. Now get the ABP back to his room, gently please, no point damaging him further for no benefit.”
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Moriarty grinning and I have to bite my cheek to prevent my sympathetic response. Then I remember the burn marks on his skin and suddenly the humour drains away; I think my dark expression alarms James who backs away and frantically starts dismantling the test room.
Copyright Mabh Savage February 2013
Storm Moon
Storm moon coming
Beating at the door
Tempers are a raising
Mood drop through the floor
Hard times over
Starvation ain’t the kill
Hearts running hungry
Stagnant water standing still
Voices louder
No one asking why
Anger comes from the gut
Emptiness from the sky
Flowers drowning
Crimping o’er with frost
Tiny reminders
Of just what you have lost
Trees still bare
Under February air
But they need no help to get there
To the green and to the fair
Storm moon coming
Washing your tears clean
Starting you over
Knows what all your sighs mean
Storm moon hanging
Laughing in the cloud
Mocking your ego
Did you have to be so proud?
Storm moon over
Lightening burnt away
Blackened stump of life
The beating goes away.
Surveillance
So this is our “black op”. He looks like a man. Different though, odd in the way he moves. And he is moving. I expected to see him sat perfectly still, waiting for input, or dejected with how long he has been in this place, but he is stretching, joints moving in a slow and supple way, limbs moving a little further than a normal human structure would allow. He is very well balanced. He moves from one foot to the other without seeming to shift his weight at all and I wonder if he is making himself rigid or if he is simply so strong he can support his frame in any position.
As I ponder this, he slowly brings his fingers to his toes. I watch in astonishment as his legs curve back and up until he is standing on the tips of his fingers, head facing forward. He lifts each finger up, one at a time, as if he is testing them. Without any change to his facial expression he continues the movement of his legs in a perfect curve back to the floor, so he is in a crab position. His head looks unnatural now, as he is still looking at his toes.
I have to ask:
“Why is he doing that?”
“The freak? Who knows. It gets bored, I guess.”
“The freak? That’s what you call him?”
“Well what would you call it? It’s not a man, not an animal, not even a robot really. Creeps me out. I’m only on surveillance but lemme tell you, that’s enough. Dunno why we don’t just get rid and have done. The project got shut down you know?”
“I know Stan.”
“Oh that’s right, you’re in charge downstairs now, congrats. I guess this is the first time you’ve seen our “guest” then.”
“Yeah, I’d heard rumours of course but when they handed me the files I just had to see for myself.”
“The files. Yeah, they kinda don’t tell the full story.”
I wrinkle my nose at him and raise my eyebrows.
“You mean someone here did a shoddy report?”
“Hey, no one’s getting nobody into trouble! Not that anyone cares, those reports are so old.”
“Yeah, I can’t believe he’s been hidden away up here for 35 years. Crazy.”
“Can’t let it go; can’t put it down- well the big brass thinks it still has stuff to offer us. Me, I think it’s a waste of a good room.”
“The files…”
“Oh yeah, what is it they say-emotional acclimatisation failure?”
“Big words for you Stan.”
“Hey!”
“I jest. I didn’t know what the hell it was going on about to be honest. I checked all the figures on his responses and they looked human enough, in so much as you can make comparisons between the two.”
Stan sighs but obviously takes pleasure in being the bearer of bad gossip.
“What the files don’t tell you is that his emotional responses were off the scale. Yeah, it reacted to all the right stuff- in a way. But it reacted too much. There’s no way we could send it in as an operative, because as soon as it figured out what we wanted it to do, it was disgusted.”
I ponder this and ask
“Surely though “it” could be manipulated, convinced that what it was doing was for the greater good?”
“Too smart. Like I said, it figured shit out. We gave it the best AI possible but it was totally inhuman. Then we gave it feelings and it cared too much. For weeks after switching the emotions on it just screamed at any input. Did our heads in. We were all sat here with earmuffs on taking bets as to when it would shut the hell up!”
I wonder if the horror is showing on my face. I hope not. I don’t want Stan to think I’m some bleeding heart who will chew him out for treating something this way. Am I? Science is my life, but I’m starting to feel a bit sick watching this beautiful being, and listening to the smoke hoarse voice of a man who wishes it were dead explain its life story.
“So it made its own decision not to cooperate.”
“Yeah, what a waste of effort. That’s why the program got canned. An artificial being is only useful if it can be controlled, and we made this one too good and we can’t figure out how to take it back. I mean, we can turn the feelings off, but then it’s just a robot again; anyone can make a robot, right?”
Yes Stan, any Tom, Dick or Harry with coat hangers and a bit of string can make a robot. I hope I’m hiding my contempt.
“So essentially you built a hippy robot.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t underestimate it. Yeah, it feels and it cares more than the rest of us can or want to, but it can do what it was designed to. It’s shitting deadly. If it thinks it’s in danger or something it cares about, it goes bat shit crazy. It ain’t just the lovey fluffy emotions that are off the scale. Trust me when I say you do not want to see this thing have a tantrum.”
“What do you mean, ‘something it cares about’?”
“Well, um, off the record?”
“Sure Stan.”
“Well it is on record but nowhere you’ll ever read it. It took a shine to one of the lab assistants whose job it was to ask questions, do tests- kind of a psycho analyst whatsit? Anyhow this kid was sweet by all accounts, fresh out of college, bit naive. He and the freak seemed pretty pally. Then the kid started getting harassed by one of the senior technicians. Really below the belt stuff; would never happen these days. Anyway, this kid was totally miserable, and confided in stretch Armstrong over there. Next time the three of them were in the room- the kid, freak and the bully- freak confronts the big shot about the harassment. Guy laughs. Big mistake. Freak flips out and grabs him. Tells the kid to leave. Looks straight at the camera and says “not acceptable” then snaps the guys neck, easy as me snapping a match.”
Copyright Mabh Savage February 2012
The Chapel
The chapel is beautiful, ethereal. Called square, it’s actually longer along the east and west walls which are entirely made of saints and apostles, sculpted straight out of the sandstone, and lit with tiny lights making each of them glow; a heavenly luminescence that from a distance makes the whole building seem other worldly.
It’s a hot night. I drive up with the roof down, veil fluttering in the speed crafted wind as I find the car park for the gorgeous, holy building. I reverse into a space, one arm on the wheel, the other draped over the leather seat back as I look over my shoulder to make sure I don’t destroy anything with my oversized vehicle.
Once parked, I sit for a moment. Fingers rest on the smooth material of the seat, heat inducing a slick sweat between the two skins; one alive, one dead. I let the liquid fail friction and my fingertips glide over the gloss of the-
What am I doing?
Procrastinating.
No I mean, what is this that I am doing here?
Ignoring the voice of sanity I open the door and step carefully out of the car. The dress I have gone for tonight is stunning; I’ve really outdone myself. The material is thin to suit the heat of the night. I am wrapped in white from neck to ankle with the tiniest burst of tulle emulating a train. Can’t go overboard on the train when your driving. My arms are simply laced with white ribbon, as is my head; hair totally bound to my head in a cap of the slinky material. The tiny veil is as reduced as the train; covering features only, it moves only with my breath in this still, potent night.
I’m out of town. I have to be. I’m too recognisable in my own area to be doing this. But I need to do this. Well “I” is a worried pronoun here. I no longer know what is “me” and what is the creature I am creating by my indecision. The bottom line is, if someone sees a mad woman skulking round churches in a wedding dress, there’s no reason they will tie it back to me: head of research at the corporation that started all this…this debacle.
I walk into the church through the main entrance at the south. Despite the ancient look of the sculptures, very modern artificial cool air flows around me as I step over the threshold. I stop behind the first row of wooden benches, and as always, start to try and picture what could be. What could happen if I truly removed myself from the situation I am in. I imagine the bouquet between my grasping fingers; the adoring, approving friends cheering. My nostrils flare; no, that’s not part of my fantasy. He is here. Amazing. I don’t even need to look around. He is perfectly silent when he wants to be. But his smell is unique; subtle, but absolute.
I wonder if he is simply going to watch me then leave. I haven’t seen him for weeks; the weeks that I have been travelling these backwater towns, trying on churches for size like the dresses I hire under a range of pseudonyms.
I turn and sit on the back of the pew and start flicking my fingers over the spines of CDs, stacked in two piles next to a small player attached to the church’s sound system. I still don’t look up at him. I can’t decide if I’m embarrassed or not. He doesn’t exactly think about things in the way a human does. There’s no point guessing what is happening behind those unique eyes. I’ve learnt over time that being direct is the only way.
“So, pretty certifiable huh…” I try, still not looking up to where I know he is standing by the door. His reaction, as usual, surprises me. He laughs warmly and comes to sit at the other end of the bench’s back. “You, my dear, are off your rocker. That’s my certified opinion.” I finally raise my eyes, and see he is already looking at me, twist of a smile at one corner of his perfect mouth and body matching my position perched on the cold wooden bench. I can’t help it, his lack of mockery and acceptance of my ridiculous actions lift a weight I didn’t even know was there and laughter bubbles up inside me. Before I know it I am giggling and not in a crazy way; simply laughing with delight at his presence and not having to explain myself or worry that he is going to have me committed. At the sound of my laughter his smile changes to fill his eyes, and I know he has as little regard for my insanity as he does for most other things regarded as “human failings”. He’s simply happy to have found me, safe and not falling to pieces. Not quite. We sit and smile at each other; a warm, strange moment.
Copyright Mabh Savage February 2013
Sorrow
Sometimes sadness is so profound, it almost becomes a physical object. When it has a weight to it, and carrying it is not only emotionally tiring, but bodily exhausting. The backpack of sorrow, dragging shoulders and chin down, and straining the back; straps of shattered dreams scoring deep marks in skin so tough yet so fragile. Words becoming meaningless mumbles. Eyes of pity only draw more tears. Kindness is welcome but fruitless; this sadness cannot be broken, only weathered until the stone of time dulls its edge and the cut of the sorrowful dagger causes a little less hurt every time it is unsheathed from the scabbard of memory. Time. Friends. Family. Kind words; candles in the darkness, each a beacon to the passing pain, drawing it out little by little like a poultice on a stale wound. Each one by itself may make no difference, but put them all together and you may just make it through.
Thinking of friends.
Mabh Savage 