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you are the dreamer
Jul. 17th, 2015 09:39 pmGrantaire keeps thinking, somehow, that if given sufficient time, he'll forget about the island entirely. As though he can keep a tally of how many months he's been there, compared to how many months he'd been there; who he'd known, at what time.
(He's tried that: it's unhelpful.)
There are long periods where he doesn't think about Tabula Rasa, about the people lost and found there. Weeks at a time with only the slightest reference. A cat to take care of, a job that needs him, friends that soothe and hush the acidic twist of melancholy that always lurks beneath the surface: bright creative moments that restore his patience and give him joy.
But after a long day serving customers that are entirely unappreciative of the fact that they're sitting in an establishment where they're being served alcohol by people who know about it, he is neither bright or creative. For the last week he's been feeling like he's watching himself, as though he can't touch anything, and home, alone, it's overwhelming. He falls asleep at the table and even his dreams are filled with ghosts: love, safety that twists into wrongness and horror; he wakes again and again within the dreams with relief only to find the same thing.
Grantaire wakes, sharply and really, at the table alone in the dark: wanting and angry at himself for still caring.
When he goes out, it's with no intention but to get lost, but he finds himself carving his way through the industrial part of town anyway, and there's a little part of him that's hopeful. He hates that too; he doesn't want to care. But if nothing else, he thinks he won't be judged here if he needs someone to feel real under his hands.
(He's tried that: it's unhelpful.)
There are long periods where he doesn't think about Tabula Rasa, about the people lost and found there. Weeks at a time with only the slightest reference. A cat to take care of, a job that needs him, friends that soothe and hush the acidic twist of melancholy that always lurks beneath the surface: bright creative moments that restore his patience and give him joy.
But after a long day serving customers that are entirely unappreciative of the fact that they're sitting in an establishment where they're being served alcohol by people who know about it, he is neither bright or creative. For the last week he's been feeling like he's watching himself, as though he can't touch anything, and home, alone, it's overwhelming. He falls asleep at the table and even his dreams are filled with ghosts: love, safety that twists into wrongness and horror; he wakes again and again within the dreams with relief only to find the same thing.
Grantaire wakes, sharply and really, at the table alone in the dark: wanting and angry at himself for still caring.
When he goes out, it's with no intention but to get lost, but he finds himself carving his way through the industrial part of town anyway, and there's a little part of him that's hopeful. He hates that too; he doesn't want to care. But if nothing else, he thinks he won't be judged here if he needs someone to feel real under his hands.
