her body is movement. her body is action. her body is a flurry of kinetic energy, stretching and pulling. her body is palpable matter, organs, muscle, bone and flesh. her body is...
her words come from somewhere else, a different place. her words come from her other half, an entity existing in separateness, in contrast, on a different plane. this other half calls out and its voice keeps her - a body designed for motion, a body designed for work, a body designed for existence in a niche - its voice keeps her stationary. its voice keeps her searching though searching may be in vain. its voice keeps her listening for answers that may never come.
still she listens.
the air passes over her, and she listens.
and she listens.
...
the air catches in her lungs. she has been listening to silence for so long. she questions and there is no answer. she shouts and she is no further than when she woke from her winter dreams. silence, and the confinement that comes from a deeper awakening have been all that she has known. isolation has been her only companion on this journey. faith has been a taunting thing, a joke, keeping her hoping when there is no evidence to support her doing so. a taunting thing keeping her going.
"listen? listen? what is she listening for? the sky does not answer. the trees jealously guard their secrets. the birds and their wings keep all that they know to themselves. is she different from them? are we not the same? are we not all searchers searching?" her voice no longer wavers, she speaks with the certainty of fury and patience lost.
"what keeps her here? what keeps her searching? why - if work is what compels her, if biology drives her - why does her own separateness taunt her?! she doesn't want this body, she doesn't want this awake-ness. aviator never asked for this! take it back! she wishes for sleep. she wishes for a return to dreaming."
still she listens as waiting is no longer a choice. waiting and listening have become her need and as her petulance abates, the clouds of fury parting, a part of her is broken, and there is no more hope. in its stead is the need for answers grand enough to placate the beast of her soul. it is with her soul that she listens.
she listens, and the answers come, like vibrations, she is the rod and they are the lightning. "312" and hers is a voice weak with resignation and the loss of restraint that comes from biology.
"312 312 312 312 312 312" there is alarm in her voice. she speaks, and she searches, but the questions she asks may come with answers she does not like.
"312" and with the faintest of foreboding she feels these answers have their own duality - completeness and destruction both at the same time. it is with the faintest sense of foreboding that she feels, even in destruction, it is too late to turn back.
"312, 312, who are you?"
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