Hezekon
Right Hono(u)rable Minister of Music
It had been another long day for Thorngood. The drip and drag of the hustle in the day caught up to her at night and she was sore, so sore. It was as if her muscles were of thorns, a play on words she couldn't quite get her brain to ignore. What a name. What an awful name. She hated it. Or, at least, she thought she should hate it. It was a name she didn't care for, but it was also her name. She wished, though, that it were perhaps more . . . enticing? Grand? Noble? What damned word was she trying to think of now? She was so sore.
She turned on her laptop. Went and checked her various pages. What was happening? Why was this happening? What in all the Beings' names was going on with the times? Was it just her? No, it couldn't be. And she knew it wasn't, really. She understood there were those who were upset. Frustrated. Violently outraged. Content not with their lives, or the lives of others. There was an inherent imbalance in the world, that had been made incredibly, indelibly clear. The world was unfair, and could be cruel. And perhaps the worst part of it was that it wasn't due to some sort of malice. The world was uncaring and unfair because there wasn't anything to care or be fair. The default state of the world, it seemed, was of either accident or design wholly and completely impartial and without morality. There was an absence of force, not an existence of its abuse, or even of its arbitration. There was nothing. And somehow, in some way she could not understand, that made it worse.
But why could she not stop thinking on this? What did her mind do to her that both lulled her out of reality, and yet forced her to face it so forwardly as to break her mind in ribbons? It didn't help that her shoulders hurt, dammit. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go and talk to her again. She would double down and see it through. Her sore body would scream, groan, and mock her; but tomorrow she would go.
She turned on her laptop. Went and checked her various pages. What was happening? Why was this happening? What in all the Beings' names was going on with the times? Was it just her? No, it couldn't be. And she knew it wasn't, really. She understood there were those who were upset. Frustrated. Violently outraged. Content not with their lives, or the lives of others. There was an inherent imbalance in the world, that had been made incredibly, indelibly clear. The world was unfair, and could be cruel. And perhaps the worst part of it was that it wasn't due to some sort of malice. The world was uncaring and unfair because there wasn't anything to care or be fair. The default state of the world, it seemed, was of either accident or design wholly and completely impartial and without morality. There was an absence of force, not an existence of its abuse, or even of its arbitration. There was nothing. And somehow, in some way she could not understand, that made it worse.
But why could she not stop thinking on this? What did her mind do to her that both lulled her out of reality, and yet forced her to face it so forwardly as to break her mind in ribbons? It didn't help that her shoulders hurt, dammit. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go and talk to her again. She would double down and see it through. Her sore body would scream, groan, and mock her; but tomorrow she would go.