LOST

For some reason, I thought a futon would be less comfortable. Of course, the night before, I slept in a sleeping bag in an abandoned building project. Anything is an improvement over that. I thought the atmosphere here would be weird, too, but it isn’t. I feel safe. I was going to turn down Alex’s offer and just stay in the unfinished building. I’m glad I changed my mind. It’s very obvious that Alex likes Stew. Her face lights up at the mere mention of his name. The way she talks about him. I wouldn’t think of treating this situation as anything other than her helping out a homeless person. What’s more, I can’t seem to get Marie’s face out of my head. Those blue-gray eyes just pierce right through me, as if she were wielding Zachary’s dagger herself, thrusting it right through my flesh and into my heart. Dear Freyja, please, don’t let me fall for another mortal. This old soul can’t take that kind of heartache too many more times.

“Daggers. Daggers. All around me sixways are daggers. And each one presents a different death. Love and martyrdom. Sublime and indifference. Chaos and nostalgia. Of them all, let me die at the hands, and at the feet, of love.”

It was just a random piece of prose I wrote while John and I were in a foxhole in Gallipoli. He thought it was profound. I thought I was just rambling. Well, John, I’m in a foxhole again. And it’s more profound now than it has ever been. I’ve got to figure out what these damned symbols mean, for my sake just as much as Stew’s.