The Cold Colour

Recovering Emily, A Clockwork Gothic - Prologue

I feel the need to write something more, something to place with the other pages, something to let you, my dear Reader, know what I have sacrificed, and know what I have become for the sake of my heart.

I’ve spent the last several days in this room, ensuring the proper ending of things, completing my work, and setting these notes down to paper. I do it with the full knowledge that it may reveal both the state of my reason, and, finally, the reasons that I’ve done the things I have.

They’re coming for me soon. I know that. You cannot play Prometheus as I have and not attract the attention of certain parties. I remember that, at least; of everything I’ve lost, I know three things - that I loved her, that I would do anything for her, and that the Powers That Be would do their best to stop me.

Everything else is forgotten, a grey patchwork haze where my memories once were. My sacrifice to her, dear Reader. My sacrifice for my glorious one, my Emily.

For the love of love, how many changes can be made to a man’s spirit, how many lost moments before everything fades, and nothing is left but the grey numbness? Is that all I am, now? A barren field of grey? No, dear Reader; even having lost everything, I still feel the burning within my soul. I know, even now, that I have sacrificed willingly.

I have turned my back on everything I once believed in. I have traded in my books, my ideals, my summer days and winter night, the priest’s collar and black dress that I once wore with ferverent belief, the kiss of time, and the dreary days between then and now, all so that I could have her again. I know now, as I suspected then, that I will trade everything, even my immortal soul, to bring her back.

God, if He watches, would understand my pain. God would allow me these sins, I think, were he as merciful and forgiving as Mother Church wants me to believe. His agents, however, will not - not for them the forgiveness of the Divine. No, they act as my harriers, his Hounds on my trail.

I watch for them, dreading that one day I will slip, and will miss them before the completion of my Work. That failure, dear Reader, and that alone is all that will damn my soul to Hell. Any other result will lead to, if not Paradise, then some holy Purgatory in the grey wasteland that is my memory.

I sleep, when I am able to, with my ear half-cocked for the sound of their bootheels smashing against my door. I have been chased out of my bed and out of my hidey-holes more often than I care to imagine, I think. I’ve tried my best to leave reminders so that I can continue.

In quiet moments, I sometimes believe I recall the ghostlike shouts of “Great Blasphemer” ringing in my ears.

Thankfully, gentle Reader, they have never come close to finding Her resting place. I’d like to think you’d know it if they had. I’ve done my best by her in that respect. All my work would be undone if they found Her. Emily would be returned to the encroaching nothingness, nothing more than parts, and all that I had poured into her would be lost, forever, along with her spirit.

It’s only fitting that I trade everything to bring her back into the world; soon enough, she will breath again, and dance, and sing, and speak; I only hope that I am left enough to hear her once more, so that I can breath her name, and tell her how much I love her.

But one must sacrifice so much for Eidolon.

I keep expecting to hear DeClay at my door, arguing that we should not continue down this path, that there are things that we must not try to learn; I know they took him in ‘67, and placed him into the dark holes that they reserve for those who, like me, seek to embrace the great Powers. I pity him, it is true, but know that he would have gladly sacrificed me had he known that they were coming.

We play an intricate game of chess, dearest Reader. I know they come, and they know that I can hurt them if they do - but to stop me, they will sacrifice what they can. And to complete my work, for my Emily, I will sacrifice all that I am, all that I have, and all that I will be, if need demands.

Perhaps these words will ensure my memory lives on, if all else is lost. Perhaps, my dear Reader, I will still exist, somehow, stored within these pages to be read by you, and continue my existence. Watch for me, then, Reader. Wake me, if you can; perhaps as you breath my words, some semblence of reality will return to me, and I will be able to return once more, as I hope that She is.

Perhaps that is all I have left. The promise of possible existence versus the certainty of the end. But then again, that is all that any of us has, is it not? I’ve spent countless days thinking about that, and nights trying to decide whether it is worth the risk; all the time knowing that no matter what, I would continue on, that I would sacrifice everything, and everyone that I’ve ever known to complete my work.

Eidolon demands sacrifice. I willingly give it, so that She might return. Without sacrifice, there is no meaning to any of it. And everything must have meaning. It is that meaning which is sacrificed to the needs - those experiences gathered that touch you.

Do you see that, dear Reader?

Yes, I think that it all matters. We do what we must, and if in the process we learn regret, then that, too, matters. So I now believe. And so I will take these papers, and the letters and poems I have written, and I will leave this place, as planned, and I will live, as I have always hoped, to read these words again, with you.

Shall I do more? Maybe I will arrange these papers, tie them together neatly, divide them into chapters, and open each with quotations by Shakespeare or some other luminary. Shall I copy them and send them off to be published, only to stumble upon the words one day? Perhaps it will kindle the embers of those memories that remain within my weary head and empty heart, and I will find them again.

Everything is melting, and Spring has come, thawing the coldest hearts. I will allow it to melt mine, perhaps down to nothing, in hopes that Spring’s breezes will melt Hers.

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[NOTE: For those wondering, this is the opening to an abandoned NANO project - feel free to provide feedback as you see fit.]

We need to make books cool again.

We need to make books cool again.

If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.

Don’t let them explore you until they’ve explored the secret universes of books. Don’t let them connect with you until they’ve walked between the lines on the pages.

Books are cool, if you have to withhold yourself from someone for a bit in order for them to realize this then do so.

-John Waters