I was just dorking around on M Word, putting out words in whatever order they wanted to come in, and this was what happened. :) I haven't much to say about it, because it's pretty self-explanitory, but I should say that it arose out my genuine belief that it would bother Amy, thinking that the Doctor wouldn't speak a word of her once she left his life for good. I think it would bother anybody. Because really, what does that silence mean?
Sometimes I wonder if you'd think of me.
I mean, realistically speaking, we aren't going to flit about the universe forever. Me and Rory, we've a life to live. Eventually. I'm not meaning today, of course not today, but it's still got to happen sometime. And when we do—when we go away—will you think of me, Doctor?
I know you've had others on board, gone a-traveling with people before I was even alive, or my parents were alive, or their parents. I'm not that thick, I can understand that. But you never talk about them. What were they like, what did you do, what wonders did you conquer? It can't all have been ho-hum until I arrived. I know you, Doctor. You don't know how not to be in trouble. So … why don't you mention them? Are they not important anymore, once they've left? Do they not exist anymore?
Rory's got a theory on this one, and he calls it "compartmentalizing."
It really doesn't matter one way or the other, to me, what it's called. I don't see as how it matters. What I want to know is if you'll ever think of me, once I've left, or say my name. Am I just another thing to forget, or am I something else?
In a hundred years—in a thousand—will you even remember my name?
I can be sure of one thing, at least. I'll remember you. I'll talk about you all the time, and only Rory will know I'm not barking mad. Our kids will grow up on stories of the Raggedy Doctor and maybe they'll remember those stories long enough to tell them to their kids, too. High hopes. Gotta have 'em, you know. For the rest of my life, Doctor, is what I'm saying. Forever.
Oh, but that was sappy. Can't take it back, though, because it's the truth. But what I'm getting at here, Doctor, is that telling the story means something—so what does it mean if it never gets told? Does it not matter? Do the people in the story not matter?
I'll tell you what I really think. I think you store them up. I think they sit in your heads like little jewels, all hoarded up. If I knocked your head about I expect it'd rattle. I think you don't share them because they aren't meant for anyone else, just the chief characters. When I'm in a good mood I imagine that you think it's respectful and that you're honoring them by not bringing up your past exploits every five seconds. On bad days I think that letting all those stories out would be too much clutter in your head, and that that's the only reason in the world that you don't dust them off more often—as in ever.
But don't worry yourself about it, Raggedy Doctor. I was only wondering.
