Dear Reader,
Another one of those spur of the moment monologue thingies… Hope you enjoy!
I don't own Final Fantasy VII
Stay safe
Stay healthy
Sincerely,
Starr
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The road went ever on and on, twisting and turning from where it began. Far ahead the horizon lingered on, unattainable, unavoidable. The roads less traveled on were the ones he always tried to take.
Sometimes he'd find pleasant surprises. Homestead and fields, little pockets of civilization and tiny hamlets of quaint villages and towns tucked away in surprising locations. Sometimes he'd find nothing but road and wilderness for untellable and unforgiving miles. A grey drudgery unending.
He knew she hated it when his deliveries took him so faraway. No. It wasn't that she hated it… she was resigned when it came to his job. It wasn't about the money, omni knew it wasn't about the money. They had enough, they all had enough. But there was a need to stave off the horrible drudgery of inaction. The feeling of boredom setting in with a terrible choking sensation. The suffocation of peace.
The delivery service allowed him the luxury of running as far as he could, as fast as he could without ever really going anywhere. The illusion of freedom it gave him was enough. He could pretend he was happy as a chained vagabond. Always traveling, never moving.
Yuffie understood it best. Responsibility was the bane of adulthood. Whining and bitching wouldn't cure it. Not that he would if he could. Contentment was a form of blanketing lethargy that he resignedly welcomed.
Sometimes his travels would take him so far he would be forced to spend the night. Or two. Most nights he would spend under the stars, one hand on his sword the other pillowing his head. He had no need for a blanket. But some nights there would be inns. The common room a bustle of cheerful chatter and warm firelight. Of people relaxing and socializing afte4r a hard day of surviving. Songs and laughter and gossip. He always claimed the farthest corner, a silent, singular audience to those few hours of someone else's life.
A man talking excitedly about the new baby. An old man telling stories and stamping his cane sharply on the floor to make a point. A young couple shyly sharing a meal. Workers companionably quiet as they washed the dust from their throats. A group of young men eyeing the waitress appreciatively as she sashayed knowing through the crowd. A couple of middle-aged men playing a heated game of chess, friendly banter snapping back and forth. An old couple celebrating their anniversary and still so very much in love. A family on a night out. The bartender playing matchmaker for a lonely man and a depressed woman.
All of this he saw and would see again in a different time in a different inn. Always the same generic struggle for survival. Invisible in the crowd he watched and pretended that he was one of them instead of the silent observer that he was.
The map was a crisscross of roads, a chaotic tangle of multicolored lines. But, to him, no matter how far and winding the roads, they all seemingly led back to the same place. The charming entrapment of comfort and caring that many would call a home.