terriblepurpose | Deer Country Contact

[There's a part of Paul that might have sought a meaning in what happened that skewed towards the poetic, the symbolic. Something about cycles, or the inevitability of fate, or echoes. That capacity still exists inside of him.

But most of what Paul thinks of what happened, in a numb, accepting way, is that he had managed to weave himself into a constructed blindness while convincing himself he could see clearly, and shame is sometimes an excellent corrective to grand internal narratives, especially if not resisted.

Or: he was stupid, and he was stupid on purpose, which is worse, and it hurt people, which is what matters.]

I'll try to fix it. [He runs his fingertips together, a little waterfall of touch.] I'm helping with the rituals to calm the sea. Apologizing, to the people who want to hear it. Cleaning up my mess.

I don't know what else to do. That seemed like somewhere to start.

I am sorry. That still doesn't mean you have to forgive me, but - you know that, I think. I don't expect you to.

That's a bandage.

[It's not accusatory, it simply is: that is a bandage, maybe even a balm, but notably, it is only a start. Palamedes' gaze drops to the ornithopter again, and he slouches some in his seat. Paul understands the bandage-quality of his own plan— that is a different kind of start, about a different kind of problem.

Palamedes doesn't much care for the sea throwing a fit like a toddler and so has no interest in the appeasement, but he'll keep that one to himself. What's one more mysterious ritual, really. The bandage, then.]

It gets you back to zero, I suppose. Then what? [He holds up a hand, briefly.] Don't factor my approval in, or anyone else's. I don't think that's your goal. So, what happens after zero?

[Which is a more roundabout, less dismissive way of repeating what he'd told Anna to do: get her house in order. He dares to think Anna might be at least an iota more anchored than Paul, despite everything, so. Zero, and he doesn't leave Paul here to brood.]

[There's reprieve in the slight unsetting of Paul's shoulders when Palamedes forestalls navigation of the factor of approval. He ventures a sideways glance, a little nod, and he keeps the rush of gratitude veiled, but not completely hidden.]

I want... [He worries a spot on the inside of his cheek with his tongue.] I want to be better. I want what I do next to be better than what I've done so far. So I learn how to do that.

[No try appended there, which is as much hope as commitment - but what are most commitments, if not a kind of wish? He has fixed himself to a cause that may be futile, but he has to try, and he's never tried to do anything with less than utmost sincerity. It's one of his problems.]

That's the part I'm still working on. [He admits, with a peeled shaving of shame.] I don't know. I should have started there. But it has to be different. I have to be. So I don't know, yet.

...if you have any ideas, [a soft question, shaded to quiet] if that's not cheating. I'd listen.

[Want to be better is good, Palamedes thinks; vague, and shaky, and precarious, but good. He himself wants Paul to succeed in this new goal of his, if only for Paul's sake; there are things that can't be undone, but after a point, miring in them is the same as simply stopping.

So: wanting to be better. He glances at Paul, eyebrows raised. After a moment he concedes, gently:]

No, I don't think that's cheating. But I can't lay out a twelve-step program for you, or anything like that.

[It wouldn't be genuine to just check all the boxes and call it done, but also-] What's 'better,' to you? What kind of person is better Paul? I'd start there.

[Although that isn't enough, and while he could point out some of the already obvious faults in making a list of Good Person Traits, instead he says:]

I've been thinking about your imago. You said it was a transformation in reverse, when we come back from the worst thing we are. Respectfully, I disagree; it's a straight line.

[When they speak of apologies, of reaching zero again, of the people who'll listen, they speak of the interpersonal; for the deeply, fundamentally individual, they'll need the imago. There isn't any going back to try again when it comes to the self, Palamedes thinks, and it could be grim-- although.]

I mean to say, and don't take this as some greeting card platitude, because you know I hate those— What I'm trying to say is that this isn't the end of everything. The better Paul is just you; you're already in there somewhere. You can't hate this Paul too much.

[ The imago. All that keeps Paul from curling up on himself like a caterpillar is that final instruction, but his cheeks still flush an unusually uncontrolled pink as he devotes his energies to not hanging his head in self-indulgent rumination. He could - he has - worn a groove in himself shaped perfectly to his inward turned thoughts.

But not here. He is being invited to a threshold. He doesn't want to step away. ]

No.

[ He draws the back of his hand over his dry mouth, wiping nothing away. ]

I mean that you're right. I can't. It's not - productive. [ A pause, an adjustment. ] It's not helpful. It's...another kind of excuse, isn't it?

Telling yourself the only way forward is back. Or hating yourself so much that you can't allow the possibility of...

If I don't think there's a better version of myself, there won't be. You can't achieve what you can't imagine.

[ Platitudes, but he says them like they're new again to him. He understands them better, with the weight of what he failed to change in anyone else across his knit brow. ]

And no one else can do that for me.

Something like that.

[He could pick at the words for a while, if he felt like it; don't think of it as an all or nothing, as productive or not, as helpful or not— but he's getting a little tired of arguing about semantics with people.]

Maybe you'll keep the same people, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll agonize over it for weeks until it blindsides you on some idle afternoon that you've already gotten pretty far. I don't know; there aren't- magic beans for this.

[Or something. Whatever. He waves a hand, like, don't question the beans.]

In the meantime, you do still have to live in the world every day. Grueling but true.

[ Unlearning all or nothing thinking will come somewhere along the way, if he manages to keep himself balanced on the path. For now, this keeps him moving in the direction he wants to go, and if it's not magic beans, it's still something that grows.

(He wonders what kind of magic the beans are, to solve problems.)]

I don't think I'm good at that. [ Now his hands come together, a loose empty basket in his lap. ] Living in the world. But I'm good at practice.

[ So: he keeps doing it. It would be easy to hide, shut himself up in another ruin like the ones he used to secret himself away in - but for now, he's found. ]

So. There it is.

[ He uncurls. He leans back against the chair and looks at the ceiling, blowing a stray hair out of his eye. ]

...thank you. For talking to me about this. Even without the beans. [ It could be a bad time; it probably is; he hazards it anyway: ] They're not in the mochi?

I have no idea what's in the mochi, if I'm being honest. I didn't like them; they're chewy.

[But he doesn't broadly enjoy the experience of eating food, so please don't take that as endorsement of their overall quality; he hears they are excellent.

Probably no beans, though.]

I don't like beans, either, come to think of it. [palamedes.] But I am on your side. Still.

You're stubborn like that.

[ Or: it's a relief to here, unwinding the spring-coil set of his spine as he opens up the box of mochi again and selects one, now thoroughly thawed, to squish lightly between his fingers. ]

There's a sweet bean paste you might...probably not.

[ Prosaics. Talking about baking. These are the things you miss out on, attempting to forge a path through the wild dark towards half-glimpsed destiny. He bites delicately into the mochi, and if he had to say what it tastes like - it tastes like another chance, deserved or not. ]

I'm on yours, too. [ Quiet, without dramatics. ] They're good. Compliments to the baker.

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