Little Moments

You would never imagine that every drop of rain is perfectly orchestrated and directed and yet that fact remains undisputed. Thankfully this body of mine can’t feel any of the elements. I can only sense the intangible of the tangible, the sound of the unheard if you will. The fact that I also can acutely sense the effects of things I suppose somewhat dulls the boredom of this immortal life. 

There is something strangely precious about each individual drop of water slipping down a windowpane. They're almost human in the uniqueness of their existence. I guess that’s why I don’t usually change their path because they, like so many other things, are children of time.

Ten seconds remain 

I have no idea why humans call time slow or fast. She's nothing if not perfectly steady. For me though she’s always slow. That may just be because I'm always in the future or the past waiting for her. Despite knowing what's coming the wait is often an unnecessary bore. 

I'm not usually early to appointments for soul retrieval but this is the last one slated for tonight so I don't mind. I’m suspended somewhere between sky and earth as though standing on the moonbeams filtering down to the lakeside cabin in front of me. I wish I knew what rain on my skin would feel like- I wonder what skin feels like. Can this body made by the combination of shadow and light held together by the red thread of immortality even be called a body? 

Descending slowly I pass through the walls and come to stand on the wooden floor directly opposite of a young lady in a rocking chair. She’s staring out the rain soaked window towards the mountains in the distance.

Times moves on her pace never slowing, seven seconds remain. 

The burled cedar floor is warm, heated slowly by small fire in the brick fireplace against the wall. There’s dust on the mantelpiece and wood chips scattered around the grate surrounding the fireplace. The rug on the floor is old, almost worn through on the fringed edges. There’s a small stain towards the corner that the rocking chair resides on. The lady in the rocking chair is still facing south towards the mountains. Her gaze steady as time itself, almost. Her hair still glows with the vitality of her youth, its golden tresses framing her face gently. For me her seventeen years are just as fair as the 93 year old man I picked up earlier this morning. Despite all human tears and sadness that accompany their departure time is nothing if not fair. When she gives, she gives just enough.

Five seconds. 

   A log in the fire snaps sending a shower of sparks upwards. The young girl seems to start at the sound as though returning from a place much farther away than the distant snow covered slopes. She reaches down to the side table beside her and brings the china tea cup there to her lips softly. There's little wisps of golden steam sailing skyward from the cup carrying the gentle fragrance throughout the room. Soft scents of orange and hibiscus mix with the deep woody smell of the rest of the room. From somewhere else in the house a piano starts playing, warming the air more than the flames at the fireplace. 

      Over in the corner there’s a small wooden desk with a vase of flowers tucked into the corner. They’re the last marigolds before winter comes to steal some beauty from the world. I suppose there’s fairness in the balance of that too. Balance in the repetition of life even when time moves on steady, balance in the unfinished letter on the desk its ink not even completely dry. I could tell you every word written there, every thought the girl has ever had even the ones she doesn’t remember but there’s no reason. There’s no magic in knowing everything. I swear immortality is just a curse for those of us too lazy to do anything. 

   Three seconds.

  She breathes out softly probably without even thinking of it. I know she only has four breaths left. Time runs slowly for me. I was here when it was created and i'll probably be the one to stop its hands when it’s time has run. Outside the window leaves fall to the ground plucked from the trees in a burst of wind. It’s just another day. The piano slowly fades to a stop as two more seconds disappear forever, to wherever the finite go. 

Everythings in place, nothing creating any current of color or sound. It’s all so… ordinary yet she’s smiling. A smile not even big enough to pull up the corners of her mouth. My watch makes a distant click at the same time as the grandfather clock beside the fireplace continues its smooth pendulum swing. Its not on time of course, nothing in this world of humans is ever accurate. Not their creations or their decisions or even their breaths. It’s 11:57 and I can see that soul slipping loose from the body resting in the rocking chair. It's a vibrant ball of light small enough to hold in your hands but yet it seems bigger. Not much just a little bigger. Souls might be the only perfect child of time. 

I never move when souls are loosed from their bodies. They always find me. I suppose they’re looking for some sort of anchor in the world between their mortality and utter boredom that is my prison. I cradle the ball of light softly wondering at the color and warmth. It’s always a wonder to see a full life compacted into such a different form. Every time I go collecting for each soul the feeling is completely the same, a little wonder at the end, a little interest in the colors, a little jealousy of the finality. No matter the circumstances every soul collected is full in its own way, even the two second old ones.

I’ve never forgotten a single soul. They’re a myriad of stories inside me, a collection of endless paintings filling me and yet always leaving space. I should be used to these flowing feelings but everytime there always just as new. I overstay my visit slightly just looking at the empty room. I can see everything from the dust on the bookshelves to the sparks in the fire and yet, just like every other time, I feel like there's something that I just can’t see. 

I know everything about her and everything about every single thing in that room. I know when the ink was made, how old the tree that the floor is made out of was, the exact temperature of the flames in the fire and yet… Every soul always seems to be made up of more than what I know. Is that time’s gift to mortal life? 

Why was that girl smiling?

I guess immortality isn’t long enough to understand 17 years. Times fairness to her children is beyond my understanding. Someones crying somewhere… there is rain falling after all. 

I wonder if time remembers her little one's as much as I do...

Entry 4,758,465,215 

Thought Diary of 

Shinigami Azreal III