Footprints

I visited home today. After the news of military mobilization in the State, I felt, for some reason, compelled to return. I am not entirely sure why, but I suspect it was because I worried - If only slightly - That total war might ensue with the Federation, or the megacorporations might be at last turning to each others throats in some kind of violent coup. And I would have only this final chance to see Saisio, to walk amongst the endless hills and peaks, to sit and think in the monastery, and hear the teachings of the elders... Before it was reduced to bitter dust. To die amongst my people instead of live amongst my, well, more recent and less hospitable kin.

I never really believed that would happen, of course. It was a foolish, childish fear, a petty thing I idly entertained to spare myself the difficulty of disregarding it. Like when one gets a strange chest pain and quickly rushes to make a half-hearted repentance of ones misdeeds to the heavens, just on the off chance it's something serious.

...Well, perhaps I'm the only one who does that. I suppose we are all fools in our own little ways, if you will forgive the utter trite redundancy of such a statement.

In any case. It didn't lead to anything, of course, and I didn't stay for very long.

It was odd, though. While it has only been two weeks since I departed and returned to piloting, it seemed peculiarly... Unfamiliar. Things seemed to stick out more then they usually do. I was aware of the odd overgrowth in the trees, the creak as I walked upon the old, wooden stairs, the poor state and general untidiness of my own room...

Is it strange that I have a "room"? I am a Capsuleer, if still a fairly recent and very much unsuccessful one. I could afford a hundred homes of equal quality to even the rather locally spectacular one my father owns. Gods and spirits, I could probably build myself a skyscraper and exist there, with all the things one could ever need at my fingertips for my own amusement. (Ugh, I sounded Gallentean for a moment, there.)

And yet, for the past four months, I dwelled in this relatively tiny space, as I had when I was a child. I spent most of my time idly reading books from our library, in spite of the fact that I could have done this from my Neocom with much less effort, which is burned behind my eyes forever, easily summoned at a moments notice. When I was not here, or spending time with old friends, I was outside, strolling through the hills and woodland - When previously, and now once again, I had wandered amongst the stars.

Isn't that absurd? I know I am a creature of habit, but such a tremendous retreat into familiarity was all but pathetic. Something about being a Capsuleer, with all it's terrible grandeur, scared me to my very core, such that I wanted nothing to do with it, or to even be reminded, for a time. I cared not for glory, nor wealth. I only wanted to desperately return to the way things were.

Is it strange that it fills me with a strange sense of profound discomfort, and a small measure of shame, to write about this? Even though no one will ever read it, save for myself?

I spoke with my father briefly; He is well. He appreciated my efforts in assisting the mother corporation, thus returning dignity to our family name. I would be more frustrated with being forced to repent for his mistakes if it were truly any effort at all - But in all honesty, it is not. My fathers shame on our family was something that hung over the head, over all of ours heads, for years. But, as a pod pilot, it has only taken me essentially two days to evaporate it completely, and grant us more favor then we have ever held, even prior to what happened.

When I mused on this particularly hard, I felt weak. Ill, even. The concept was terrifyingly intimidating. That I, alone, could accomplish more then my elders did in years, and do so not in some great feat of intellect or bravery, or some other virtue; But rather in only following orders and completing what were, to me, trivial, mindless tasks. In baseliner terms, little more then delivering a crate... No, even that implies exertion... A gift, perhaps, to a friend who lives down the street.

That, by virtue of what is now my very nature, my deeds were worth so much more.

It is a shocking thing, to be a normal being, a little mortal amongst little mortals, and then stand within my own giant footprints. Or even to observe them from some distance, as the case may be. To be forced with a choice, to either see myself as something great and huge - Which violates the teachings of my sect more then I can even begin to speak of - or to begin to see the world as something smaller. Far, far smaller.

Why did I return, and not remain content in the comfortable, the little? ...I suppose I do not yet really know. Perhaps I will, soon. But I felt that I needed to do so.

When I got back into space, I bought some new skillbooks. I spent an hours earnings on one to learn cloaking. It cost about a million isk? I can't really remember.

I am trying very hard to not think of how many houses that could buy. Very hard. It is difficult.