These blank pages stare at me. I can hear voices in my head as I write these first, cautious words across the white field.
I see the past. The faces of my mother and father. I hear them speaking, though I don't know what they're saying. Words from my memories? Do their spirits have something to say about my future? I don't know. I see him, and him, and her, and them, and...everyone. My whole, damnable life.
I see the present. The world, wide-open, sunlit, cold. I see the jolly party from the Prancing Pony. What a huge crowd it was! Mostly people I didn't know. Names were tossed around, but I don't know if I'll remember them, or if they'll remember me. Some of them looked at me as if they really saw a person, not just another nameless face. I see the roads leading east and west, north and south. So many people I've met. I crave silence and solitude. But I promised to help someone, and I will do that first. And then I want to be alone with my thoughts. Under the cold stars. At peace. I know where I want to go next. I feel brave enough to go there now, so I think I will. It's time to face...those things. To look them in the eye and not cower, not shrink, not run.
I remember what it felt like to be afraid. To feel that very first tightness in my chest, squeezing behind my ribs, the day I didn't know where he was. I thought that surrendering was foolishness and weakness. Caring makes one vulnerable, after all. But it doesn't have to be frightening. I know that now. There is a certain power. A ferocity. A raging, passionate freedom that I feel now. Because I've stopped fighting. I've stopped running away. I will live and die for this thing, this new, unnamable thing that I feel. And I'm not afraid. Fear is part of yesterday, and yesterday is where the shadows live.
And I am done with shadows.
