So now I'm here.
Sitting between Loki and the window, occasionally casting glances outside at the sky's half-white and half-blue expanse, documenting all this despite Loki's misgivings. He didn't realize I'd brought along my ancient writing laptop until I pulled it out after we'd been seated, and immediately demanded with no platitudinal expletive what in the name of sanity I was thinking. After a good half hour of arguing and trying to convince him that wi-fi didn't exist at typical cruising altitudes and I didn't need it to write this down anyway and there's no way S.H.I.E.L.D. would bother tracking such a dinosaur, he let off enough for me to focus and write down everything that had happened since my first-and until further development last-poker night. Three chapters is no amount to scoff at, so it's been an hour and a half since we boarded and we are one fourth of the way from America to London. Needless to say I would have been ecstatic at going to London since I've never been despite really wanting to, if not for the dire circumstances under which we fly. I wonder who in London we're looking for, but the only person that comes to my mind is someone I'm fairly certain I would not like to meet in person. Or at all. Let's hope Loki's mind comes up with something else. Anything else.
The flight has been pretty pleasant thus far, no storms or whatnot. At takeoff we flew through some clouds which I loved, but nothing as exciting has happened since. As I type Loki is suspiciously silent next to me. I would suspect that he has fallen asleep if not for his eyes being half-open, but save that piece of contradicting evidence he looks for all the world like he's konked out. Slouching, head back, breathing long and slow and steady. Maybe he can sleep with his eyes open, like Gandalf. Of course, it could also be an illusory decoy in place while he goes off doing who-knows-what. I'll have to keep that in mind if I ever work up the nerve to prank him in his sleep.
Running out of things to say, it occurred to me that this could be the last time I write anything for a very long time, maybe ever. So I'm trying to work up my inner nostalgiac, get as close to the cusp of paralytic despair as I dare because that's where the inspiration runs fast and cold like a river after a spring thaw. Just like every time I feel like I'm not quite there, but I need to get over it and write anyway because if I waste too much time trying to push to that edge I'll fall over it and get caught in that web of sweet sorrow. Then not a word will get out of me. But the opposite has happened-I just wrote a ton, but the emotional density is shabby. But it's not like I can do anything about that. Ah, well.
I wonder if they miss me. Or if they believe the cover story that was fed to them. I'd never really speculated on such a scenario, because I figured that I'm so close to my family and friends that I would never let myself be removed so utterly from them. But of course that's exactly what fate decides to hit me with, because I was arrogant enough to think that it couldn't happen to me. And like everyone else who has been hit in a similar fashion, I have to ask why. Why was it me, of all people? There are plenty of other fangirls who wouldn't miss their homes as much as I would when in the presence of the God of Mischief. Shouldn't it be one of them that has to endure this subtle torture? I know this is all infantile and selfish, but I can't write any other way because I don't feel anything else. All of it is this aching feeling of nothingness in my chest as nostalgic high school songs about being removed echo in my head, all infiltrating my pathos with a refusal to end. I want it to as much as I don't. The logic in me orders it to stop, but the human in me pines for it to keep going because it's addicted to the feel of endings because it hates them so the feeling shouldn't end either. What on earth made me think humanity was easy?
Loki's waking up.
Readers, whoever you may be, I bid you a solemn but not sad adieu.
~Kinners