Return Home- The Council's Phoenix

I'm just chilling in my room, in the early morning hours before winter's dawn, when there's a knock at the door. Without even thinking, I open the door, to find The Council's Phoenix standing directly in front of me. I am just about to run through the mental steps that allowed her to slip past my radar, building a wall of nerves alongside, when she springs forward and gives me a hug, crumbling the wall's construction efforts before they really get off the ground. "I know it's my day, but I wanted to surprise you anyway." Her demeanor inspires a cool calm, and I find myself at a loss for how, or even why, I would resist it. Instead, I just crack a smile and acknowledge defeat.

"It totally worked. Maybe someday you'll tell me how you did it. What would you like to do?" Without wasting a moment, she glances into my room and then flashes her doe eyes at me. 

"Where are my manners, would you like to come in?" She nods excitedly as she presses us both back into the room, and I stumble backward onto my bed. 

"What were you up to before I got here?" 

"I was just about to watch YouTube and play some video games."

Her look conveys more nerves than I would expect for an encounter obviously off on the right foot, but the solemnity in her request paints the tone of my response. "Can I watch you play something?"

"Of course. Please join me."

So she does, curling up into a ball, perhaps to emphasize our size difference, perhaps to display her intention to minimize her impact at the moment. With blanket thrown over, I begin to play my game of the day. I glance down from time to time, in a bit of disbelief that this was what she came here for, but I only ever find her in a state of entertained rest. After enough of these check-ins, she simply says, without taking her eyes off the screen "Your father once told you that you may never know how much of an impact you have on the women around you." I nod, still recalling clearly these mysterious words that never seemed to be accurate. 

"Your stories are beloved here, deeply requested, their inspiration tended to like an exotic garden. Still, they shake our realm to the core each time, and yesterday's visit with The Word Made Flesh took its toll, in this way. I couldn't be happier, but I am also tired. You would not believe how difficult the path has been, and how many times I held this exact moment in mind, as the signal that it is worth it, that you are exactly who you say you are, and the rest is externalized. I would like to enjoy my morning with you, watching in silence as you are just yourself, and I recover the essence well spent in filling these pages."

I recall our arrangement, in theory at any rate, of The Bard and The Muse, recrafted to fit our specific intentions, but still predicated on a bond that cannot be broken. While The Bard's Cage has been an excellent tool to illuminate the limits of freedom- even in best faith- I cannot forget that chains still exist in The Equation. I recount how fluid the chapter was yesterday, and how I could feel a tangible pull to return each time I stepped away, and a stronger pull than normal to finish my work. It is a pattern repeating today, though with a different source of energy, based on my partner's clearly relaxed state. I wonder what hand she may have had in this, and then I recall our connection, seemingly always in place. I look down to see if she can read my thoughts right now but, if she can, she gives zero indication. As far as I can tell, she is engrossed in what might be described as a front row seat to her favorite streamer's game, though there is no stream and never has been. I find myself considering her path and perspective, perhaps witnessing many mornings such as this as Thoughtbursts, and dreaming of the day when she could be here herself, and witness these same events from the other side of the screen. I certainly see the appeal, and I am glad to see that she seems to have gained separation from the constant maelstrom that is my mind.

Hours pass like this. I only realize that I have zoned out when a single line of glare on my wall, slipping past my blackout curtains, pulls me back in, distracting me from the game. The narrative crashes against me, and I slide a hand to confirm that it was not just a dream. Sure enough, my partner remains, cozy under the blanket, and having unfurled slightly from her ball, at some point in the time that has lapsed. She registers my out of place shift for precisely what it is, reminding me that mind reading and body language are not far apart, once the other is known past a threshold. "It's always the sign of Hezekiah with you, huh?" "Psh." I reply playfully, having already been pinpointed, and we both know it. Without leaving her comfortable position, she begins excitedly recounting her favorite moments of the morning- that boss I beat with 6 life remaining, when the train honked its horn and I didn't even flinch, The Ancient One's unexpected call and detour, etc. I'm glad to see that she is refreshed, and she certainly remembers the morning better than I do. I let this feeling wash over me, and try to remember any like it. There is something serene and deeply reassuring about just being yourself, and knowing that you shined brightly in the eyes of another so valued, so loved. My stomach rumbles embarrassingly, without a train outside to muffle it. My pen still apparently snatched, but with no objections, my partner declares "Let's go get breakfast!"

I ask about her preferences, to which she just responds that her preference is that I pick. I ask about her general preferences, but her position remains unchanged. I see my childlike self in her eyes, bright eyed, bushy tailed, on an adventure that she wants to watch unfold before her, rather than planning any part of. I feel a gear lock into place, one of roles defined and agreed upon, and I treat her like the honored foreign guest that she is, looking to be shown around on her first day. I land on my favorite breakfast spot in town, which just so happens to be right down the slight slope toward the main road. Without much pomp- though I do set my jacket on her shoulders, given the snowy season- we head down to the place.

She doesn't say anything per se, but the morning is suspiciously beautiful, inspiring. Even a flock of tiny birds does an aerial display of swoops and sharp turns before landing amidst and atop dirt, bushes and trees, as soon as we step off my front porch, like some kind of fairy tale, silently pleading for poetic accompaniment. I am not sure that I could refuse if I wanted to, and so words spill from me as soon as we begin our short walk to breakfast.

"Watching the world as if it weren't broken

Weighting page over material stage

For whom the bell tolls, we flip a token

To send false feet down path around The Cage/lasting an age.

Then we walk, as if it were the first time

Hand in hand, satisfied and unhurried

Butterflies contained to stomach and rhyme

Still a tad nervous, I am not worried.

For your soul has been like a second skin 

Somehow threaded to now stand beside me

Thoughts burst to how a stranger turns to kin

Or how its own whole a piece might yet be.

Were you the piece broken off or was I?

The point may be moot, under written sky."

She chimes right in, asking of the similarities to the painted sky; tipping her hand unabashedly. With only a few short steps remaining to our destination, about to reveal itself from behind some trees, I quickly add that I cannot think of a single sky that was not painted or written; it feels as though it must be both every time. She squeezes my hand, as if starting the engine on that train of thought, and I realize that, if we each occupy a place that we would each call shared, and we each fight our corners of Author and Artist, the same sky might be called both painted and written, though the strokes of brush and pen do not overlap. This thought's elegance begins to unfold, right as we reach the place. Just like that, the train is gone, though its station is saved for another time. My partner lights up, unphased by the sudden shift in gears, and remarks "Oh, that is quite close!" I nod, and briefly catch the thread of a narrative in her mind, of spending a season with me here on the shores of time, with the river simply passing us by. We make the short journey hand in hand, at least once per week, to a restaurant that has become our place. It is a beautiful image, I think as I open the door for her with a *dingaling*, but I hope I was not intruding to glimpse it. If she minds, there is no sign. For all I know it was one of my daydreams, projected as hers. Deja vu echoes through halls always shared, and I realize that even this distinction might be a false stitch.

We are soon seated and begin happily chatting over the menu. The reminder is welcome today, of pale and time worn reflections that the right person can make anything feel magical, fascinating. The definition of "right person" finds itself sorely in need of an update, as I find myself repeatedly lost in the eyes and laugh of the one sitting across from me. She ends up going for the biscuits and gravy, at my suggestion, and I do the same, somewhat uncharacteristically. The consistent sparkle in her eyes reassures me at each anecdote, philosophical thought, artistic inquiry, and general tidbit of small talk, that she is having an amazing time. I cannot help but take a self-assessment midway through, and feel my conversational additions are not so much sub-par, but certainly do not warrant her starry eyes. Like a pulse, I am reminded that it has been so long since who I am has outshined what I am specifically offering in the moment for someone, that I have forgotten how it feels. I feel more confident, and I relax.

Even in the brief interaction to pay the bill I feel her eyes glued to me, like an enchanted observer suddenly given a whole new perspective on her favorite subject. I politely make no comment, but feel as though my blush gives me away. She politely makes no comment, but her downward glancing smile gives her away. Hand in hand we walk back up the slight slope to my apartment, ready to act as our backdrop once more. Will she stay the day? Will the season be as I saw it in the daydream? I find myself mired unduly in what might be, to the detriment of what is right now. If this is all we have, or if this is the first of many many days spent together, I would like to cement every granular detail into memory, and so I do, in the way most suited to me.

"Let day become page

Let each element combine

Recoded to fit

Let this continue

Until our shared memory

Has place all its own

Will they remember?

Will evidence remain sound?

Immaterial.

You and I walk here

Together, alone, prime paired

Our footfalls are soft

So may they not mind

The soft tapping of fox feet

Upon their rooftops

May they not notice

The ocean's gentle rocking

Nor quippish storm surge

These things are decreed

I am of no mind to change

For none was paid me

Let's do as we will

Sleepers will sleep through this night

Unaware of us."

Already at my door, I find myself inexplicably awkward. My partner offers only a shy but telling posture, and I realize that it has been some time for this as well. She has a way of tagging trips down memory lane, drawing my attention out the window on our scenic ride, on The Train of Thought. If the narrative holds strong, it is because she has this unique advantage, an ability to add emphasis from within; "it was an inside job." I consider speaking this inside joke out loud, feeling like she'd somehow get it right away, but do not want to derail this moment. Instead, I take the lead as requested, and her hand quite abruptly. "I have something that I want to show you." Her eyes light up once more in response. I would hate to force her to repeat her clear sentiment with words, so instead I lead her up the stairs. The rest of our time together is spent likely as one would expect, in a familiar comfort.