Chapter Text
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the colour, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Bob Dylan; A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall
Chapter 1 - Prologue: I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking,
Of all the things we should've said,
That were never said,
All the things we should've done,
That we never did,
All the things that you needed from me,
All the things that you wanted for me,
All the things that I should've given but I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go away.
Kate Bush; This Woman’s Work
You can never get the time back. And you can never undo what has been done.
Hardly a revolutionary thought, I know. But then, as you'll have seen, I'm not exactly a revolutionary sort of thinker, either.
Getting to grips with linear time is tricky, isn't it? It seems painfully obvious, but it’s still a head-fuck trying to grasp that it really isn’t a game, there’s no rehearsals or respawning points, that every single second that you spend staring out the window, picking your nose, not doing anything in particular – all of it counts. But you've got to manage to get that notion through your head somehow. It's one of the cornerstone concepts that underpins the whole 'experience of human existence' thing, isn't it? That you have a definite beginning, then an indeterminate number of years, days, hours and minutes until, finally, it all stops. At which point – sorry, you’re done. The end.
We each of us carry that knowledge, that awful awareness of our own fragile mortality, every step of the way through our lives. The understanding that, from the moment you're born, and your heart starts beating by itself rather than relying on your mother... your time is running out. It’s a one-time only deal, and it really, really doesn’t last for ever.
Once you’ve got that through your thick skull, of course, another fundamental truth also becomes apparent: from that first faltering heartbeat, and first gasping breath, each and every single one of your choices and actions is hemming you in, shutting down options, stripping away all that vast, wonderful, terrifying infinity of possibilities that you began with.
Because, when all's said and done, you can't ever go back.
Now, bear with me a minute because I'm going to hit you with a metaphor. Sorry - it has to be done. You see, I'm not quite the knucklehead a few arseholes out there would have you believe. I can do the deep shit when I need to, and this is an occasion calling for deep shit.
So, let me try. Are you ready?
From a vast, empty blue sky, a raindrop falls. It plummets through nothingness, alone in the universe. At this point, anything could happen to it. But it’s not staying up in the air for ever. It’s falling to the ground far below. And then, as soon as it hits the ground, that 'anything' disappears in a brief splash of psychobabble, and its ultimate fate is determined. It is going to start its inexorable journey downhill, in search of the sea from which it evaporated in the first place.
Same for us, you see? From that first, boundless sense of complete freedom as you drop from the heavens, the course of your life gradually becomes more defined, the single stream narrowing even as its channel deepens, confined by its own banks, carving its own parameters into the bedrock to determine its direction, and running on towards its inevitable endpoint where it flows out into the boundless ocean at last.
Now, don't get me wrong - I'm well aware that 'ooh, life is totally like a river, man' isn't exactly the most original piece of figurative imagery ever conceived. But the point I'm making isn’t about the river itself, you see - I'm talking about the banks and breakwaters, the things that hem you in and push you back, forcing you into a route over which you have little control, even if you don’t properly appreciate those barriers and confines at the time.
My thinking's changed about this short of bollocks over the course of my life.
Back in the Glory Days, when I was young and beautiful and cool as fuck, it didn't really matter to me anyway, because secretly, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was going to live forever. Try to remember that feeling: the certainty of perpetual youth, and beauty, and invulnerability - because you're like that when you're fourteen, aren't you? Even the minutes go slowly, as anyone with double physics on a Tuesday afternoon will tell you. The world's still yet to show its hand in terms of just how badly it can fuck you up - for most of us lucky souls, at least - and life is waiting for you on a plate, ready for the taking. You don't even notice at first as the doors start to close around you - each and every one of those alternate paths disappearing into nothingness, lost irretrievably - because there's always more out there waiting for you: more scenic routes to be explored, more exciting things to be done, and, of course… more time.
Yeah, well - I know. I never said I was a genius when I was young, did I? Wisdom comes with age, along with a heap of other stuff that’s a lot less welcome. I’m not the only moderately-clever adult in the world who was quite a lot of a stupid arsehole when she was younger, I’m sure. Be honest.
Of course, speaking from personal experience, for one or two of us those years can be a little bit too exciting. Even so, it is amazing what you can deal with when you're young, and full of energy and optimism and raging hormones, and as thick as a triple-decker elephant sandwich so that you don't recognise the inevitability of what is to come. Myopic positivity, coupled with a cast-iron certainty of your own absolute centrality to the workings of the universe and your all-round awesomeness, can get you a long, long way in life before reality bites you hard on the arse. It’s a wonderful feeling. You’re indestructible. You’re important. Or, as a clever cow once put it, you’re young, and cool as fuck, and twice as beautiful.
And then, at some point, you raise your head, and open your eyes.
And you look.
And you see.
And you notice that you've been sitting there, poised on the very cusp of something happening - that great, life-defining change or event which is going to set you on your way and give shape and meaning to your existence - for a very, very long time. And, during that time you’ve been waiting, nothing much has actually happened, after all. Except, of course, that the clock has been ticking away while you’ve been sitting on your fat arse waiting, and your life trickling away with it, one grain of sand at a time. So you look again, and you see again, and realisation dawns as to just how much of that sand has already disappeared forever.
That little lightbulb moment doesn’t feel particularly great at the time, I know. It’s terrifying, and hurts like hell, and it made me cry and panic more than I’m entirely comfortable with admitting even to this day.
Of course we all have to go through it at some stage - that ghastly, sinking revelation that maybe the universe doesn't exist for your benefit and glorification. Cottoning on to the fact that you actually are just another bog-standard, utterly unremarkable mammal on an overcrowded planet. That, in fact, all those boundless horizons are just a painted backdrop to the little patch of soil where you will scratch out your meagre, meaningless existence for ever and ever, amen.
I went through that dreadful process of self-realisation quite a bit earlier, I think, than most folks do. Because... well, duh. I don’t really have to explain that one, I’m sure.
Without wanting to sound too big-headed about it all, I think it probably hit me harder than it does for the majority of the world’s population, too. That’s not me being an arrogant prick: for a short while, at least, I had genuinely been super-important, I had been different, and special, and had a greater purpose to my life. Me and my friends were absolutely fucking amazing. We took the burden of the whole fucking universe on our shoulders and went out there to fight for you, all of you, and didn’t take a backwards step. Back then, I really did matter.
And then, all of a sudden, I didn't.
I must confess it took me a long, long time to get my head completely around that bit of fuckery from the universe. But, you know what? It passes.
Time isn't a great healer, whatever that stupid little platitude might claim to the contrary. But it's a halfway-decent anaesthetic, I suppose. It doesn't make things better, but it does put distance between you and the hurt, and gives you more things to fill your brain and your heart with – enough to crowd out everything else. It means the pain and loss gets swamped under other immediate, humdrum concerns, and you can function day to day without screaming, whilst you slowly start doing the things that will eventually help you to heal yourself.
And that’s how it is with all of us, I think. Sooner or later we all go through the grief, realising our life isn't magical but is instead a limited little thing; kind of empty, in all likelihood. And then – wonderfully - you go about stopping it from being so empty by filling it up with trivialities that you’ve decided matter to you, the shiny things that take your fancy and help you to forget the darkness outside the door. And after that, maybe, you can fill the void with something a bit more meaningful, because real treasures are hiding out there, too. You can find your own little victories out there in the world, along with your own sense of purpose. Someone who loves you, and who you love in return. A passion that you have, a driving force, a calling, or whatever.
The clock's still ticking, remember. You can't escape that. But, actually, those little moments and interactions and banal little occurrences that you spend your days with, those petty concerns that have you tearing your hair out, and all the rest of it - they are important. They are the stuff of which a good life is made, that stitch humanity together. A true life’s work.
And the doors which close around you and hem you in? They help you find your course as well. Once your life is in its channel, however constricting that might be at first, you gradually discover something else exciting. There are still other paths to explore downstream: doors to be closed, of course, but doors to be opened as well. The path we take might be different, even if the ultimate destination is the same. However you chart your course, though, you can fill your life with meaning, and hope, and beauty at every turn.
It's been tough for me on occasions, down the years, I won’t deny it. But I've found that, in its own modest little way, there's meaning and hope and beauty in my life, too. I'm reconciled to what I've lost and what I've gained - mostly, at least - and it's only every now and then that those losses really sting.
I must admit, they hit me badly last August.
I'd been out with the girls from work on a stupid nearly-my-birthday do and had ended up getting home late - extremely late, by my standards nowadays - in the early hours. As I slumped on my couch, a little bit drunk still, rubbing at my aching toes and trying not to notice the way my joints creaked in a way they certainly hadn’t done a few years before, I happened to glance at my phone, and saw that ‘the night before’ had become ‘the morning after’ without me noticing.
It was the 15th of August.
The significance of that realisation took a moment to cut through the layers of tiredness and oldness and tipsiness, but my body was ahead of the curve, and my skin was already crawling for some reason that in my befuddled state I couldn’t properly understand.
When I started to cry, it took me a while to work out exactly what the reason was. I dare say the booze didn’t help and ended up making me over-emotional. Usually I'm pretty well in control, whatever any arseholes may suggest to the contrary (you know who you are). And almost certainly it was that fuzzy inebriation that was making my memory wobbly around the edges, because, again, ordinarily I'm watertight on anniversaries.
I would have had the importance of that date clear in my head from the word go, no question. Not that I'd want to.
Anyhow, there I was, sprawled on my back across the cushions with my phone my hand and tears in my eyes, not knowing what the fuck was wrong with me, when it hit me, right then and there, smack in the chest. Slumped in my quiet, shadowy little apartment, with just the golden glow of the light of the table lamp for warmth and company, I finally remembered that it was the anniversary of the day that Nemo had died.
Some doors get shut harder than others, and that's a fact.
Like I told you before - goodness me, it seems like an absolute ago now - I don't wallow in the past, other than my one-day-a-year binge. It's happened. It's done. And I've subsequently had a whole heap of other stuff to clog up my memory banks and to-do lists with during the intervening years, most of them pretty boring, truth be told, but at least gentle in their mundanity, nothing to raise an eyebrow over, let alone start crying.
But that night - that morning, really, I suppose - it smacked me one good and proper, right in the feels.
Anemo Nemo, gone so young. Gone before she’d ever had a chance to show the world how awesome she really was.
So many closed doors there. All the things that she should have seen and done and experienced; the fun and the scares, the friends and enemies, the loss and the pain and the joy and the love... snuffed out in the blink of an eye. How fucking unfair can you get?
She was a pain in the arse, was Nemo. Sarky and sneaky and distant; funny, albeit in a slightly cutting, cruel way; too lazy for her own good in some respects, and too energetic in others. Skulking around in the shadows with a pair of daggers looking for throats to slit suited her down to the ground, it really did, and quite a bit of the shit she got up to as Leberblume would turn your hair white - don’t ever doubt it, not for one second. But she was also brave, and strong, and kind, and decent, and completely filled up with love from top to bottom.
That’s why she did what she did, of course. For love.
Yeah, like I said, it was probably the booze that made me cry that night, don’t you think? I’m a cold-hearted bastard when I need to be, and after all, I still didn’t know her properly when she died, did I? Not well enough to justify getting all mopey like that, at any rate. Maybe with more time I could have got to know her more.
Maybe.
Or, more to the point, maybe I should have made more of an effort with the time that I did have, rather than feeling remorseful after the event. Just like we all should, whenever we get the chance. Use that precious, fleeting, horribly short time that you have been allotted to get to know people, to understand them, to learn about them… and, perhaps, even to love them.
I don’t have a heap of regrets, but I regret not using that time with Nemo. So, so many more things I should have said to her, to have done with her, given to her and taken from her, taught her and learned from her. But I never did. Because, well, there was always more time, wasn't there? Always more time.
Right up until there wasn't.
Use that time you have. Please. Use it wisely, and cram it full of what you love, and where you love, and most of all with who you love, because those doors keep on closing, whether you want them to or not. And you can never get the time back again.
That horrible, awful moment is etched deep into my heart, even now. It's there, always, a great water-break in the course of all of our lives, because none of us ever came out of that the same again. I'm sure that the ripples of it are still echoing on through my own life to this very day, even if I don't appreciate them all the time. They’d be hard to notice this long after the event, in the humdrum, magnolia, ordinary little building blocks that I have made up my adult existence out of, filling the gaping void left when my past life fizzled out. But they’re still there – I’m sure of it.
I don't do maudlin, honestly. I’m more practical than that, and, barring the occasional flash of temper, I'm naturally fairly positive, too. When I hit a wall, my standard response is to say 'okay, look at the state of this - it's shit right now, so let’s see how I can turn that around.' Finding the positive, you see?
So, let me try that now.
It's good to remember that moment - that gut-wrenching, devastating moment - and not just because Nemo deserves us to; she does, obviously, but that’s not the only reason. We should all remember it because, you see, that moment, when Nemo made her choice, was so brave, and strong, when she chose to do what she did for love, and showed all the rest of us the hero she was deep down, and could have been all along if life had only been a little bit kinder to her...
That was the moment, right then, that we started to make it all better. That we finally started to win.
The only issue was that it sure as shit didn't feel like winning at the time.
But I'll let you make your own minds up about that. That sea-change, that ebbing of the tide, the start of our fightback – that’s what I'm going to tell you about right now. I’ll set it all out for you - the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the struggles and the fights, and the defeats and victories. Even, every now and then, the smiles and kisses.
It’s quite the story, I promise.
I'd get a cushion, though, and maybe a couple of drinks. It might be a bumpy ride for both of us...