A little introspection of my own.


Ah, me, what's to be done...

Useful things for putting one's thoughts in order, these boxes, I wonder? I didn't answer of the "God"'s questions, for I'd rather not have any of them paying me any serious notice, but I've gained quite a bit of intelligence from the things she said, and the things said to her. Learned a little more about this gilded prison of ours.

Am I so odd for not wanting to return to my own world? After all, what waits for me there? At best, a cosy cell detained at his Majesty's pleasure, at worst a long drop, and the worst more likely than not. Certainly I can't escape from this city, and certainly the curses and suchlike are terribly vexatious, but are they any worse than a life fleeing merciless justice? I'm (generally) warm and (somehow) well fed. And there's the people, (most of them mad as spoons, admittedly) and all the new things to see and learn. Which is better, a gilded prison or a stone one? Freedom's not where you can roam with your feet, surely, but where you can roam with your mind? I'd say I was neglecting my duty, and indeed had I still a commission or any rank or responsibilities back on earth, I'd be up there with the rest of them trying to claw my way out, but I've no duty to any man any more. Nor am I sure I want all that back. There's something much larger here, much greater, even than England, though that's a strange thought to have. Is it cowardice to want to stay here in this new, strange and colourful world? Perhaps Sparrow has indeed had a bad influence on me, though I'm more inclined to put it down to my situation.

...But what of my newfound comrades, dare I say friends? (Hasn't it been a while? One can't really have friends as such when one's focused on commanding. I don't think I've enjoyed myself this much with such amusing people since I was back at school.) Jack'll pine away without his beloved freedom of the seas, and Ran misses her Seirei Sierei comrades back home, though I wouldn't dream of intruding on her private entries to comment upon it. Sands... no idea what Sands wants, except perhaps his sight, or endless painful vengeance on his dagoe betrayer or a fully functional John Thomas potency, in all senses of the word. Wish there was aught I could do for them, but when marooned in a strange place, all one can really do is try to keep one's shipmates spirits up, or at least keep them from killing one another or killing you. God knows what's going on with Miss Swann and Mister Turner, but they've always seemed happy enough together (damn their excessively lucky eyes) or indeed in the mind of Miss Dalma, a place I don't dare venture lest I find myself hopping around a tidal pool feasting on seaflies. It's plain she can't stand the sight nor sound of me, and to some extent I'm the same, though I've tried to be polite to her, for she is a lady after all. Of sorts. I'm sure I shouldn't have been so rude as to demand her complicity on harming Jones' heart. Ah well, no sense crying over spilt milk. At least I won't have to look on those teeth again. Like the black jaws of a goat from hell. I shudder, I do.

And I swear, the next time some ninny tells me I need to get myself a girl, I shall club him round the head with the flat of my blade, and then put out an application for someone suitable. I've had my fill of falling in love with boisterous types who'll only reject me for someone prettier more interesting. There.

*reads it back*

No, it makes no more sense written down. In fact, it makes less.

Damn.