There are things we don't talk about, and they weigh heavily on our souls. Who decided they don't matter? Life is like virgin land. It only surrenders its bounty after we drench it in our sweat, tears, and blood.
People squander their lives, energy, and purpose as if they don't value themselves enough to live for real, instead choosing to take a backseat and yield the spotlight to some higher power which, based on the results, doesn't care about them too much.
While I'm writing to you, Fiona, I'm gazing at the same moon you watched from afar in your distress centuries ago, hoping for the miracle that never came, the one that would have freed you from your fear and pain. This moon is like a symbol of unanswered prayers. Some wishes are granted too late, aren't they? I wonder if God works this way, if all the questions that are left unanswered are in fact processed in a much slower and more permanent frame of reference, in God's time.
For some, this is a metaphorical musing. They don't know how lucky they are, the innocents, to live their lives in real time, and not in retrospect.
I've had visions of my future, it's so far away it's almost like it's in a another world, and my life is trying to catch up with it, as if it hadn't happened yet, as if all the choices weren't made ages ago, in a different reality where time doesn't exist.
My gift, the gift we share, leaves no room for doubt, not in this simple world we inhabit, hiding like unwanted time travelers, and I can't help wonder if you knew, back then, waiting for that fateful morning, that I existed, or would exist one day, that I was like you and we were destined to meet.
So many things differ from your time, and yet none at all: despite advances in technology, the human spirit never changes. We're still the same lost souls with slightly better toys.
I didn't see you there, in my already written life, and yet, here you are, defying the certainty of a predetermined future.
Who were you, my friend? Who was the girl with soft blond hair who left this world too soon? The one whose blood called out to mine, Fiona Corrigall of Cuween Hill.
We're only passing through this world, us travelers, we pass through it, but never belong.
We're children born of the wind.
I hear your voice in the night air sometimes singing a melancholy song, with a simple melody that haunts me, my sister from the past.
In every rain I feel your tears, your soft breath in the fog, your anger in the storms, while life passes me by, pretending to surprise me, just like it does everyone else.
Your fate decided that you'd never age, but I already know I will. Mine is a very long life, I gathered, or will be, or was. I'm getting lost in all my times on occasion. If there is such a thing as time, I will be a daughter, a sister, a mother, a grandmother to you, who died centuries before I was born, but whose spirit is as bright and alive as anyone I ever met.
Be friendly unto me, Fiona Corrigall; to you I pledge my truth.
YOU ARE READING
My Dear Fiona
ParanormalAn American anthropologist and her creative sister spend a year in the Orkney Islands trying to locate the burial site of a Viking princess from the 10th century. Much to their surprise, they find themselves embarking on an adventure much more meani...
