A Knowledge Of Tales

She sings 40 years' worth of ignorance for those that will listen.

The sun is a cat's eye, which sets as she crawls. She crawls around the world from west to east every day, and returns every night. The moon is her again, from west to east. Changed color? Why, of course. Don't you know cats' eyes reflect light in the dark?

A sensible mind that's gotten confused. Years of misconception, piled up and twisted like a patch of brambles growing freely. Bits of most of everything, stirred around and glued together...

The sky is Paleter's canvas, and she is never satisfied. She paints the clouds and storms, yet she always paints over them. Someday, she will reach perfection and the sky will be still. Until then, however powerful the storm, the heavens will always revert to blue.

Some of her tales are quite beautiful. They're still lies, of course. In this reality, at least. She might just be seeing somewhere else, her very eyes windows to another world -- or her eyes see what is here, but her mind substitutes the information. Is there a fault with the eyes or the mind? Is there a fault with the ego or id? Is there a fault at all?

The earth is Imun's body, and we are as insects that crawl around on him. The oceans, his blood -- the earth, his skin -- the mountains, his bones. That is why most trees grow above ground. It is Imun's body rejecting foreign objects. Potatoes, turnips and other root vegetables trick his body into thinking they are part of him, like parasites...the earth's core is his heart. This is why you can find water if you dig deep enough -- we are going through his skin and making him bleed. If we go further, the wound festers with pus -- what we call magma -- which forces us out.

A girl from social services comes around three times a day and gives her food. "Nectar," she calls it. They try to take her to shelters, but she always leaves.

Man was carved from flint; woman shaped from silver. Flint and silver, rubbed together, made fire. Children are that fire, burning out as they grow older.

She never talks about herself. She calls everyone she sees by a name she knows, and she tells the stories. Sometimes, she just talks about her day, and I talk about mine. She acts like an aristocratic dame, stirring cold tea in a tin can with a radio aerial.

The stars are eyes. They look at us, they look away. They have the choice whether or not to observe us -- but at least one of us is observing them, all the time.

I try to stop by for half an hour every day. I don't have much better to do after work, and I want to make sure she's alright. Maybe it makes me feel selfless, too...which would be selfish. Funny how that works.

There is love and hope and truth and justice in the heart of every man and every woman. If we can break the shell of stone that surrounds our hearts, as with Imun's, we will live and love and hate and hunger -- but we will never raise our hand to another, for we know how it feels to bleed. We are wise enough to know, we are strong enough to do, and we are kind enough to know to do for those who cannot do for themselves.

I worry about her.

I really do.