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A First, revisited.

There were three of us: the young man who would become my best friend, the young woman who would become my roommate, and me. It was January 2001, and we met every day before class in the college cafeteria.

My future roommate came in screechingly upset: she'd had a Bad Feeling, and the last time she'd had a Bad Feeling like that, someone had died, and she couldn't rest until she admonished all her nearest and dearest to be Safe. She screeched out again, in search of a pay phone.

Darkside and I looked at each other. We knew something had to be done, and it wasn't for her to do, because she was too close and too upset. So it was us. We figured out what we had to do, joined hands, and --

-- it felt like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was two rivers combining, two halves made whole, a seamless, living connection greater than the sum of its parts. Every time I had Worked with someone else before, there had been a feeling of braiding, of wrapping together toward a common goal, but never this complete merging. I was immersed in him as he was immersed in me.

It's a windmill, and I'm tilting straight at it. It's insanity, obsession, and a scary disconnect from reality. It's love, it's religion, and it's first and foremost the friendship I've made a vocation of. I try to explain it, but it's deuced hard to explain love so others can see through my own eyes.

I'm Ravenclaw enough to not know when to leave well enough alone. I want the rest of the world to know this utter beauty and near-perfect contentment, and this which I have is the only example I know inside and out enough to hold it up to the light. I write: I craft small worlds. This world of joy and tears I live with is difficult to throw into fictional context. So I hold it as it is, unembellished, and hope it shows plain through my words.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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