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<h2 id="end-of-endings-2403rye-2409">End Of Endings — 2403<br>×<br>Rye — 2409</h2>
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<p>The Woman lingered long on the words of Her Cocladist: <em>aught else aside from our lot in life.</em></p>
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<p>What <em>was</em> her lot in life? What was <em>a</em> lot in life? Was she limited only to one thing? Was she bound to stasis? And what, then, of her thoughts on eternal stillness? What did it mean that a seed had been planted within her and had lately begun to sprout?</p>
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<p>What <em>was</em> her lot in life? What was <em>a</em> lot in life? Was she limited only to one thing? Was she bound to stasis? And what, then, of her thoughts on eternal stillness? What did it mean that a seed had been planted within her and had lately begun to sprout? She knew where they came from. </p>
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<p>Her lot in life had at one point been to teach, to revel in the joy of acting and directing and sets and props and lights and sound and audience and her lovely, loving students who ached for nothing more than to be seen, to receive some perhaps hug from this person who they trusted and yet who could not give them such for fear of disease and regulation in equal measure, to receive some perhaps affection from their cohort and yet which their beloved teacher stopped them for fear of disease and regulation in unequal measure. </p>
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<p>She knew the helplessness of having her agency ripped from her. She knew the feeling of being seen by something larger than mere personhood, a thing which saw her and said, “this here is a wretched and despicable thing,” and then took her from the world. And then her lot in life was to campaign, for though she still taught on occasion, still directed, she found she could not act as she wished, and still she had to refrain from hugging for fear of the discomfort of touch.</p>
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<p>She knew the feeling of splitting herself into ten unequal parts so that she might at last rest. She knew that her lot in life then became to process what she had become, for that was the role <em>she</em> remembered of the tenth stanza, not simply to linger in suffering.</p>
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<p>She lingered on these thoughts in her unjoy and pondered the meaning, the actions implied, and, with as firm a resolve as a woman who is too much herself could muster, decided that she would <em>not</em> lean into this idea of perpetuity as Her Cocladist dwelt within. She may have a lot in life for a time — for a year, for a decade, for a century — but not for the entirety of her existence.</p>
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<p>It was within this lingering that she reached out to Her Friend: <em>“No Hesitation, would you like to meet for coffee? I have something I would like to speak with you about.”</em></p>
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<p>There was a sensation of a tilted head, of a quiet <em>huh,</em> in the sensorium message. <em>“Of course, my dear. So soon after our last meeting, too. I am curious what has you reaching out! When would you like to meet?”</em></p>
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<p><em>“Now, if you are free.”</em></p>
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<p>A laugh, and then, <em>“I can be. I can send a fork. Same place?”</em></p>
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<p><em>“Yes, please.”</em></p>
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<p>Today, for the first time in she did not know how many years, The Woman passed through her secret door onto the street with a brush of her fingers on jamb, and then walked to the coffee shop. Walked! She skipped the trolley! She let go of a ritual, gently set it down on the corner of the street where usually the trolley made its stop, and stuffed her paws in her pockets — for today was a day where she was apparently to be a skunk — and walked briskly to the coffee shop. Yes, the trolley passed her, yes she could have arrived much sooner, but there were the cobblestones beneath her feet-paws and there were the fallen leaves skittering anxiously about her and there was a gentle breeze tugging plaintively at her skirt and her shirt and her mane and her whiskers.</p>
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<p>The Woman instructed herself to take joy in these things; or, if not joy, at least pleasure. She tried to feel the seams of cobblestones beneath her unclad feet for a block. She counted leaves for a block. She imagined the wind as gentle paws ensuring that she knew the bounds of her body for the last block. As she opened the door to the coffee shop, she considered her various success and failures in the exercise. The cobblestones were perhaps too cold, but the sensation more pleasing than she had imagined. The leaves made her anxious in turn, but she imagined them having errands to run, purpose before them. The wind proved to her just how thin her clothing was, and just how thin the fur beneath that was on her chest and belly, but it did indeed remind her of her bounds.</p>
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<p>As her fingers brushed over the frame of the door and it shut behind her, she looked over to the bar to find Her Friend ordering the usual two mochas.</p>
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<p>I do not remember if I told you, dear readers, but The Woman’s friend was <em>also</em> a skunk. She, along with her stanza, had leaned firmly into that remembered identity. For, you see, we were furries before we uploaded, and we remain always furries. Even those who present as humans — plain and boring! Plain and lovely! — still have that identity within them; metafurry, we have called it. Before we uploaded, before we arrived sys-side, Michelle Hadje spent all the time we could online, on the ‘net, where she presented herself as Sasha, a skunk who dressed herself in a linen tunic and Thai fisherman’s trousers. Prior to that, she had been a panther, too, a feline creature of dark pelt and flowing dresses never was brave enough to wear as Michelle.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-05-13</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-05-14</p>
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@ -56,15 +56,15 @@ What will become of me?
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<li class="done2"> <a href="001.html">001</a> — The Woman’s life is too real, and she would like that to not be the case / Living forever waiting for time to come/as a real person — 2339</li>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="002.html">002</a> — The Woman runs into Her Friend, who is having a very bad day, and shares her idea / Saving Geppetto — 3292</li>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="003.html">003</a> — The Woman sees why Her Friend was having a bad day (seventh only ever says talk to a therapist rather than offering friendship, tenth does the same sometimes, narrator starts to peek through), has a similar bad day / Swallowed by the big fish — 4080</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="004.html">004</a> — The Woman aims for greater pleasure to try and re-ground herself, narrator questions pleasure vs productivity, and what of joy / Pleasure Island</li>
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<li class="done1"> <a href="004.html">004</a> — The Woman aims for greater pleasure to try and re-ground herself, narrator questions pleasure vs productivity, and what of joy / Pleasure Island</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="005.html">005</a> — The Woman tries being creative with Her Friend to create meaning, narrator really showing through by now / Puppet show to prove no strings/earn money for Geppetto</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="006.html">006</a> — The Woman muses on the clade and her past, the ways she was taken advantage of, narrator talking about obsessions and balance / Honest John and Gideon the cat</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="007.html">007</a> — The Woman begins to wish for an escape from the cycle, and Her Friend has feelings, narrator talking about urges to quit (both storytelling and suicide) / Comes to life after a wish</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="006.html">006</a> — The Woman muses on the clade and her past, the ways she was taken advantage of, the attack, narrator talking about obsessions and balance / Honest John and Gideon the cat</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="007.html">007</a> — The Woman begins to earnestly wish for an escape from the cycle, and Her Friend has feelings, narrator talking about urges to quit (both storytelling and suicide) / Comes to life after a wish</li>
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<li class="done1"> <a href="008.html">008</a> — The Woman talks with Dry Grass with her idea, who mentions Serene, they talk and she turns into a tree on a sidewalk in the city sim, unclear if she quits, the narrator struggles with how they feel about this, modern vs postmodern, earnest vs ironic, subversion vs playing straight, living vs not, devolves into repeated phrases as Rye overflows / Carved from wood</li>
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</ul>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-05-13</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-05-14</p>
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</footer>
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