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*click*
The small child in seat 26E finally fell asleep. Five hours into this transcontinental flight, and only now can I hear myself think. Although the accommodations on Southwest Airlines are sparse, even a man on my salary can afford to see all of his patients with this new ding program.
My current status makes it difficult to tell what time it is, though my watch says it is 7:06 pee em. If I am in the Mountain time zone, it is 5:06, and if I have crossed into the Pacific time zone, it is 4:06 pee em. In either case, I should land in about an hour.
This cold winter has produced a surprisingly placid turn of events. At night, my patients and friends sleep soundly, thick warm blankets tucked into soft, comfortable beds. It is almost as if the chill in the air is so extreme that dementia and evil are oppressed - the wicked dislike the cold so much that they stay at home, plotting and brooding rather than murdering and despoiling. The metaphorical significance of Winter's chill caress and my own affiliation with the Pit is as comforting as it is shallow; each season in turn should have the effect of producing a placid and non-criminal response from the Lost.
Still, I am struck by the tranquility among us. It was a scant few months ago that the traitors were forced to run wild in the Hedge, chased like dogs in a grim parody of the Gentry. There are many who feel that the Courts prevent us from falling into the deprivations of the Fair Folk, but I cannot help but feel that we act as we do not in spite of what we are, but because of it.
The Hunt of Leaves of the Leaden Mirror is merely one example of the depravity that binds us to our former captors. We decry and demean captivity, unless we are given the opportunity to satiate our most base and depraved of murderous desires. There is little doubt in my mind that a terrible man met his end at Camilla's court . . . yet any Western moralist in the past five hundred years would surely recognize that the antiquated notion of eye for an eye morality performs at a sub-par level. What possible good can come from adopting the stance of the despised Gentry, who ride down the Lost in catharsis of whatever alien and debauched pleasures sported by those strange consciousnesses?
There are many reasons for the Ash Run according to the Ashen Court. As the Lost, we reserve the right to punish and demean the workings of the Nobles. We are justified in bringing down the loyalists and criminals of our society, just as we are justified in the murder of our Fetches. Justified, they say! As if some how we earn the right to sin when we are sinned against! Our culture does not make the killing of a Fetch a crime, but our conscious does. It does because is must.
The old ways, the old morals, the ways of brutality and cruelty are espoused by the Gentry. To adopt such depraved indifference for the well-being of any sentient is to fall victim to the same lurid temptations that motivate those whom we hate. The Fetch is created when the Lost is taken, our brothers in torment from the Fae. What rights, what moral imperatives mandate that we kill them because they are not us?
The unfortunate truism of our society, our culture, is that it is not mature enough to embrace morality. We champion barbarism and death where civilized methodologies of reformation and rehabilitation are far more humane . . . more humane. That is the crux of the matter. We do not embrace the humane option when our hearts stir with fear and hatred for the Gentry. We embrace the darker, more perverse alternatives of death and torture. Our culture is not built on the logic that would compel us to restore sanity to the Lost. Our culture is not built on the reason that mandates an end to recidivism beyond execution. Our culture is tainted with the same cruelty that is espoused by the True Fae.
They will not take my reason from me. I have not been so thoroughly beaten that, as a hostage, I am beholden to my captors. It is morality that separates me from Arcadia, and it is morality that I must hold more dear than life itself.
I must quiet now. The child in 26E sleeps fitfully. Perhaps I can bring him some peace.
*click*
The small child in seat 26E finally fell asleep. Five hours into this transcontinental flight, and only now can I hear myself think. Although the accommodations on Southwest Airlines are sparse, even a man on my salary can afford to see all of his patients with this new ding program.
My current status makes it difficult to tell what time it is, though my watch says it is 7:06 pee em. If I am in the Mountain time zone, it is 5:06, and if I have crossed into the Pacific time zone, it is 4:06 pee em. In either case, I should land in about an hour.
This cold winter has produced a surprisingly placid turn of events. At night, my patients and friends sleep soundly, thick warm blankets tucked into soft, comfortable beds. It is almost as if the chill in the air is so extreme that dementia and evil are oppressed - the wicked dislike the cold so much that they stay at home, plotting and brooding rather than murdering and despoiling. The metaphorical significance of Winter's chill caress and my own affiliation with the Pit is as comforting as it is shallow; each season in turn should have the effect of producing a placid and non-criminal response from the Lost.
Still, I am struck by the tranquility among us. It was a scant few months ago that the traitors were forced to run wild in the Hedge, chased like dogs in a grim parody of the Gentry. There are many who feel that the Courts prevent us from falling into the deprivations of the Fair Folk, but I cannot help but feel that we act as we do not in spite of what we are, but because of it.
The Hunt of Leaves of the Leaden Mirror is merely one example of the depravity that binds us to our former captors. We decry and demean captivity, unless we are given the opportunity to satiate our most base and depraved of murderous desires. There is little doubt in my mind that a terrible man met his end at Camilla's court . . . yet any Western moralist in the past five hundred years would surely recognize that the antiquated notion of eye for an eye morality performs at a sub-par level. What possible good can come from adopting the stance of the despised Gentry, who ride down the Lost in catharsis of whatever alien and debauched pleasures sported by those strange consciousnesses?
There are many reasons for the Ash Run according to the Ashen Court. As the Lost, we reserve the right to punish and demean the workings of the Nobles. We are justified in bringing down the loyalists and criminals of our society, just as we are justified in the murder of our Fetches. Justified, they say! As if some how we earn the right to sin when we are sinned against! Our culture does not make the killing of a Fetch a crime, but our conscious does. It does because is must.
The old ways, the old morals, the ways of brutality and cruelty are espoused by the Gentry. To adopt such depraved indifference for the well-being of any sentient is to fall victim to the same lurid temptations that motivate those whom we hate. The Fetch is created when the Lost is taken, our brothers in torment from the Fae. What rights, what moral imperatives mandate that we kill them because they are not us?
The unfortunate truism of our society, our culture, is that it is not mature enough to embrace morality. We champion barbarism and death where civilized methodologies of reformation and rehabilitation are far more humane . . . more humane. That is the crux of the matter. We do not embrace the humane option when our hearts stir with fear and hatred for the Gentry. We embrace the darker, more perverse alternatives of death and torture. Our culture is not built on the logic that would compel us to restore sanity to the Lost. Our culture is not built on the reason that mandates an end to recidivism beyond execution. Our culture is tainted with the same cruelty that is espoused by the True Fae.
They will not take my reason from me. I have not been so thoroughly beaten that, as a hostage, I am beholden to my captors. It is morality that separates me from Arcadia, and it is morality that I must hold more dear than life itself.
I must quiet now. The child in 26E sleeps fitfully. Perhaps I can bring him some peace.
*click*
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