David Bowie - Sense Of Doubt

May 1778

...

Kill... or to be killed?

I ask myself in the mirror. My back is killing me, as much as they tried to do with me, as a whole. Not only me, but the country from where I came from, and their people, who stand in there just like me as well.

Mirrors of me, of the country, and their prosperity, now gathered in this other land, these wetlands of Lachenta, found miles away of Herbs and its hills, higher than these plains, dry than this land of marshes, and their inhabitants. Mainly frogs and creatures that eat of such, known as Qu, who can be found living in their natural state into one of these marshes. The sound of frogs coming from outside the tent vanish into bits of massive tongues stuck in the mud, the ponds of greenish water found anywhere on these land says of feet stuck.

Their symphony sounded like the organ of the early morning brought by Alexander. On that day, and those days before that day of departure. Days of flowers for them all; for my wife, on the day of our marriage, for my sons, on each day one of them felt the water of baptism flowing through their skin, like the spirit of Alexander guiding us since that moment, and for father, and his funeral. He was a farmer of Dali, a town of granaries filled in by corn, who sustains the main populace, as food, and mainly funds.

Airships fly and land on such place to move people, and their corn, to Alexandria, who needs both, besides already sharing of the azure of the skies, the white of the sun, those I and father used to watch, instead of the grimy skies belonging underneath the Mist, for whom I once stood above, like these other men, like their families still stand. Unlike my both legs, once sustained by the itchy ones.

Dirty boots of mine lie in the corner, as the feet that used to wear those are currently being treated as a collection of ringworms I had gotten with the years. I may not be an athlete, but I had gotten off such burning in both feets. Leather boots aren't effective, as water and heat gathered together, favoring the proliferation and amount of fungus into my skin, either peeling or burning, like a frostbite gotten by the hold of a thick hoarfrost.

They say a kind of fish is used for a treatment, supposed to heal people from such disease inflicting my feet, currently. These fishes, said to have been found in hot springs near the settlement of Esto Gaza, seem to appreciate the taste of dying skin, though Qus seem to appreciate the flavor of dead skin as well. I'd rather eat fish than let them eat me.

Qus only seem to know about how to cook and eat such cooking. Few words are enough for a whole mouth, who's only able to eat, even words as well. Broken words, as this world, unlike those bones, who once were broken, by rocks and debris falling at my back. I guess I am lucky, or guilty of such misfortune, brought by others, brought back by the same others, who cannot be brought back to their families, only in conversations, and thoughts. Father used to tell me about this kind of feature belonging to each one of us, this mechanism of praise for the dead ones.

When someone dies, they're recognized by a whole as a man with values not belonging to his, in many times. Soldiers who die on a war, or a civil outbreak are praised as good beings, brave people with blood running through their family, while prisoners often are associated with murdering, even thought most of them had been in a cage because of thievering. So, why can't I be a murderer, or a thief instead? Father may had been a thief, but because they stole from him first. Father may had been murdered, yet he had been once the butcher of young calves, numb to become the veal my dear wife appreciates that much, as she used to enjoy finding painted eggs stolen by their Chocobos on Easter back before I knew her. I am older than her, who's just a child, even now.

'It's soft', she once said when eating veal for dinner, an opinion that would be uttered by me as well, this if I had never been a farmer's son, who knows of the way such flesh goes from the farm to their dish of porcelain. I never told her, and I insist to not tell her, and I have no time to tell her. I never had time to anything else, besides her protection, and the protection of many, that go and came alongside us. I only lost a finger, yet such valuable ring as well, but I had not lost her, and the sons that came from her. Despite my uniform, I'm not an estranged being for the duty I had been born with.

As father used to plow the soil of his plantations, virgin soil awaited to be taken in, and seeds of mine to be buried within. Stormy seasons often would come, and I would fall like an orphan to her arms. On top or underneath, I would even try to pinch her skin to see if she was real, more than I could feel her, and the role of servant of mine in the game of inequality.

I may be smart, but that doesn't mean the others who are less smarter than my capacity are unworthy, or pathetics. Not that we are perfect, but we share this imperfection we had been born with, and by learning of such imperfections, each day we improve, we try our best to feel better with ourselves. As imperfect ones, we seek into the other the 'perfection', a mere act of solidity.

However, in just a single generation, some will be forgotten, vanished into the void you allowed to be taken in. But this hard work of mine may save my soul, may be more than a reward in gil, because, like father, I'm sure that I did more than enough I could, yet I can do more, or so this body says otherwise, although my body only works contrary to my thoughts due to its nature, unrelated to my thoughts.

But my thoughts, however, aren't mine either, like this body, and the soul that maybe resides within, in the same way these thoughts, of mine and others, had been spread into this mind, put in there by voices, mostly commands. I am the one that seems to command others, yet someone else controls me as well. I wasn't willing to put these herbs on my feet, for the treatment of this disease already inflicting the damage on my skin, and maybe more, as it seems to go deeper and further within me.

I struggle with such a thing to not happen, never happen, however, it already happened. I am not the kind of a careless being, but one against the crowd has its results, and most of the time, the one who wins is the crowd; same could be said for the advice taken from my subordinates, who insisted on putting these herbs beneath my toes.

A few Burmecian herbs for a Burmecian treatment, a treat to my feet, and a threat for my image; as if their image could even stand out. I could even draw a comparison between a mere dragon hunting painting, to a colorful stained glass belonging to a baroque church, built in for Alexander to reside, as much as there are enough hearts to be his home.

While they dance barefoot for the harvest, in the rain or in the sand, I stand in there, safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye, or so father had one, and so do I share of one, as much as Save the Queen, who do not share of eyes, but a blade whose light can be seen by one, and felt as well.

There is an ancient passage near this marsh that should be able to guide us into their territory, through Fossil Roo's underground galleries of an ancient past filled with dinosaurs into Vube's Desert, or so the advice of the Judas messenger came up to be truthful once again. And, to think he's one belonging to the same species…