If you listen to a ship long enough, it has both a language, and a song.
A precise symphony of requirements, a unique rhythm forged of wear and tear, the stamp of thousands of light years. It has a voice - much clearer than our own, for it's not subject to the biological foibles of man, and instead possesses a certain honesty of purpose, an emotionless sincerity of need.
It bears no grudge, it remembers no faces. And in it's own way, a ship listens better than we do.
How long it took me to willingly bear the burden of knowing that, and letting go. How hard it was to accept that the most accurate words I'd ever utter, the clearest and most honest expressions of the mind would hold neither form, nor sound; that language would fail them, that music and imagery would speak at best in metaphor. Of course, this doesn't stop our kind from trying. Back in Freng, I almost sang my soul away; as if I were throwing pieces of it out into the world, and expecting it to still the chaotic winds of humanity just long enough for it to sound familiar.
But those winds...they're a vortex; the din, the noise, the howling stream of everyone's own conflicted minds, the everpresent war of greed and generosity, ruthlessness and compassion, vanity and humility, fear and courage...white noise...static, interference...
All I could EVER have done - I know this now - was add to the fray. All that I tried to express felt as if it ultimately bore only weight, not fruit. There comes a point where I accepted that as a general rule, people might listen to each other all the time...
...but they hear very little of themselves, or each other.
Now - lest you think I stand outside of that judgement - fear not; I hold no such illusions about my own participation in the conflicted haze that is the consciousness of our kind! But the ship and I have no choice but to listen, wordlessly, bound to each other in a clinically cold relationship of necessity; shared, streamlined - and I have come to take comfort in that clarity.
I left one last song behind; an old recording. I'd left it on the chair back at Sully's. Sully knew for whom, and why. Wondered why I'd bother if I wasn't coming back...if he wasn't coming back.
I told him I didn't know. (I still don't.) I'd like to think, perhaps, that he eventually found it. That - eventually - he heard me.
At one point in my life, when it was filled more with spotlights than starlight, I'm sure I'd have found exploring quite hard; being alone like this, for weeks, or even years at a time...
But I'd left everything behind; everything that I could, anyway. Deliberately, methodically. What I could not keep, I sold. What I could not carry, I threw away. If I'm entirely honest, I gave up, and I started over, doing the one thing I knew how to do besides sing...and that was to fly.
It was also the one thing that would put me as far from all of it as possible - things I treasured, ideals I'd held close, voices I cherished, faces I loved.
Have you ever done that? Perhaps you have. Perhaps, then, you understand how you know, deep down, that there's entire pieces of yourself now lost, somewhere beyond the smoking wake, among the forgotten names of distant stars...
Perhaps my greatest failure will be that I will never really forget any of it. Truth is, there are times I would find myself dangerously close to turning around, to flying back home; but I'd just repeat past mistakes, relive past hurts, recreate the delicate little weave of delusions and lies that could sustain the most broken of hearts; but I give no quarter here, not anymore.
Turns out, silence is a rough language to learn.
At first, I found it rather discomforting; I would pass the time singing, just to see what I could recall, as the scanners went to work; but after awhile, I questioned why I bothered at all.
Far from feeling better, the voice - my voice - felt painfully organic and ...silly... in a disinterested cockpit.
But...a certain amount of time goes by, and this quiet has begun to feel rather more normal; replaced now with the reassuring hum of the power plant, the obedient click of hardpoints, the snappy confirmation of the AI, whose words - however recognizable, inspire no poignancy; they are thoughtlessly uttered, their impact no greater or less than any other onboard.
We are ultimately alone, and for some pathetically short shred of time, we exist; we try in vain to communicate with everyone else who is ultimately alone, with themselves, holding their hands over their ears, mumbling, shouting, screaming to be heard, to be understood, to be known.
I steadfastly maintain that the void is easier to bear.
A precise symphony of requirements, a unique rhythm forged of wear and tear, the stamp of thousands of light years. It has a voice - much clearer than our own, for it's not subject to the biological foibles of man, and instead possesses a certain honesty of purpose, an emotionless sincerity of need.
It bears no grudge, it remembers no faces. And in it's own way, a ship listens better than we do.
How long it took me to willingly bear the burden of knowing that, and letting go. How hard it was to accept that the most accurate words I'd ever utter, the clearest and most honest expressions of the mind would hold neither form, nor sound; that language would fail them, that music and imagery would speak at best in metaphor. Of course, this doesn't stop our kind from trying. Back in Freng, I almost sang my soul away; as if I were throwing pieces of it out into the world, and expecting it to still the chaotic winds of humanity just long enough for it to sound familiar.
But those winds...they're a vortex; the din, the noise, the howling stream of everyone's own conflicted minds, the everpresent war of greed and generosity, ruthlessness and compassion, vanity and humility, fear and courage...white noise...static, interference...
All I could EVER have done - I know this now - was add to the fray. All that I tried to express felt as if it ultimately bore only weight, not fruit. There comes a point where I accepted that as a general rule, people might listen to each other all the time...
...but they hear very little of themselves, or each other.
Now - lest you think I stand outside of that judgement - fear not; I hold no such illusions about my own participation in the conflicted haze that is the consciousness of our kind! But the ship and I have no choice but to listen, wordlessly, bound to each other in a clinically cold relationship of necessity; shared, streamlined - and I have come to take comfort in that clarity.
I left one last song behind; an old recording. I'd left it on the chair back at Sully's. Sully knew for whom, and why. Wondered why I'd bother if I wasn't coming back...if he wasn't coming back.
I told him I didn't know. (I still don't.) I'd like to think, perhaps, that he eventually found it. That - eventually - he heard me.
At one point in my life, when it was filled more with spotlights than starlight, I'm sure I'd have found exploring quite hard; being alone like this, for weeks, or even years at a time...
But I'd left everything behind; everything that I could, anyway. Deliberately, methodically. What I could not keep, I sold. What I could not carry, I threw away. If I'm entirely honest, I gave up, and I started over, doing the one thing I knew how to do besides sing...and that was to fly.
It was also the one thing that would put me as far from all of it as possible - things I treasured, ideals I'd held close, voices I cherished, faces I loved.
Have you ever done that? Perhaps you have. Perhaps, then, you understand how you know, deep down, that there's entire pieces of yourself now lost, somewhere beyond the smoking wake, among the forgotten names of distant stars...
Perhaps my greatest failure will be that I will never really forget any of it. Truth is, there are times I would find myself dangerously close to turning around, to flying back home; but I'd just repeat past mistakes, relive past hurts, recreate the delicate little weave of delusions and lies that could sustain the most broken of hearts; but I give no quarter here, not anymore.
Turns out, silence is a rough language to learn.
At first, I found it rather discomforting; I would pass the time singing, just to see what I could recall, as the scanners went to work; but after awhile, I questioned why I bothered at all.
Far from feeling better, the voice - my voice - felt painfully organic and ...silly... in a disinterested cockpit.
But...a certain amount of time goes by, and this quiet has begun to feel rather more normal; replaced now with the reassuring hum of the power plant, the obedient click of hardpoints, the snappy confirmation of the AI, whose words - however recognizable, inspire no poignancy; they are thoughtlessly uttered, their impact no greater or less than any other onboard.
We are ultimately alone, and for some pathetically short shred of time, we exist; we try in vain to communicate with everyone else who is ultimately alone, with themselves, holding their hands over their ears, mumbling, shouting, screaming to be heard, to be understood, to be known.
I steadfastly maintain that the void is easier to bear.
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