For this occasion, nothing less than my snow white gryphon will suffice. As I prepare to land on the steps of Stormwind Keep, I try to assemble the words that I am going to say to the young king. But my mind is blank.
I found the compass, off the shore of the Broken Isles. The compass his father, King Varian Wrynn, lost in the battle, moments before his death. My chest is tight with grief, and I remain standing just outside the gate of the keep.
As I approach the throne, Anduin smiles. But then he sees the pain in my face and his features set in the impassive mask he has learnt to adopt. I kneel before him, holding up the precious memento. Our gazes meet, clouded with sorrow.
The skies might be leaden today, but don’t let the weather fool you, for the City by the Lake is impervious to it. Of course the monochrome dampens her beauty, but at the same time, it deepens it. You need to look a little closer now, come a little nearer; suddenly, you realise that this place is not what you thought at all. In the light, you see only through the hasty eyes of youth, touching on shimmering surfaces full of temptation. Now, that the gloaming obscures the City’s evident charms, your gaze may focus inward, and follow the mysteries.
He has tuned his motorbike to a low, grumbling thunder. It is black, as is his attire, down to the impenetrability of his visor. He is therefore heard before he is seen, an approaching menace, the onset of fury. He is heard, even, over the din of the City.
But the City is unforgiving, and she plays favourites; he is not one of them. She might have paved his way, but all the while she is raising obstacles in his path. Her roads are winding, her inclines steep.
He roars as best he can, and the City, unimpressed, turns away.
I did the thing. I wrote 100 words every day for a week. Yay me! I decided to publish them at the end of the week (Sunday) as a collection, because who has time to read stuff every day?
And then I ended up not publishing. It was too personal. Now, people who know me know I don’t shy away from writing personal, vulnerable stuff. But sometimes, caution is advised, because I do not exist in a vacuum, and a blog, in particular, wants to be read. What if the wrong people read that stuff?
There are wrong people for all kinds of occasions. There’s the stuff you don’t necessarily want your exes to read. Or your employer, or potential future employers. There are things that you’d rather keep from your mother, truth be told.
So, please know that I have written, even if there is nothing to read. There will be things to read next Sunday.
It’s 20:00h, and I’m panicking. This happens every Sunday. I am panicking because I didn’t get anything done this weekend. Oh, Saturday was productive, just not in the way it needed to be. And Sunday, today, I didn’t do anything. Not anything, at all. No pants day.
I need this time off, desperately. I need to be able to just do nothing. My energy reserves are depleted. But meanwhile, stuff keeps piling on, and I don’t know where to start. I am so tired. And so the spiral of my thoughts keeps spinning.
I should have, but I didn’t.
Like every Sunday, I will not be able to sleep. The cycle continues.
He dotes on our daughter like a besotted puppy. We just came home from the hospital today. „I cannot wait for the moment she brings home her first boyfriend“, my husband suddenly says. „I will tower over him and demand to know his intentions.“
I chuckle. He will tower, at 197cm. „If she is anything like you, and I’d wager she will turn out to be, then she will be way ahead of you. She will find the tallest, biggest basketball player, and she will present him to you as her guy, just to outfox you.“
More than anything, he looks proud at her future resourcefulness. „I guess she would.“