Re: The Icarus/The Fallen
"Choice or no, it's no skill of mine," Enlil continued of terrors and how to be one, or to not be one in this case. He still found it a compelling statement. Perhaps learning not to be a terror would've saved him a terrible sting, though it's likely he merely would've sought another path to the same end. He was born bad, or so went the saying. Like many sayings Enlil was content to appropriate it for his own. When one had forgotten quite a lot then one filled oneself up with whatever one wished, you see, as was the nature of empty containers. "Not being suited doesn't seem a reason worth not doing a thing. Many people are unsuited for the things they do in life."
Dull was terrible. Dull was diabolic. Dull was wearisome and sluggish and like Bran Flakes in a world with Lucky Charms. Dull was, well, dull.
Dull was a tethered life. Enlil had told himself this often, had convinced himself of it occasionally. In the twilight hours he believed it with the strength of a decathlete. In the morning he was a wretched creature, but he was no wretch here and now. The windows outside were shrouded, and there was madness in the people moving about around him. It was as if his own insides had been turned out to run about like chickens without heads in the narrow halls of this train. Enlil sat still and quietly, with only the sometimes pluck of piano keys to add to the chaos that was not teeming within his own mind. He liked the inversion, and his blithe smile was boyishness immortalized in alabaster.
He looked and perused. "Where? A wrist? A collarbone? The soft of your belly? Where would you bleed?"