PC Eternity

Acacia cannot stroll, but she walks slowly. It would have been impossible in life to beat the setting sun to any destination; unending twilight makes some things easier. It turns one hundred paces into less of a race, although some warmth would have been welcome on this walk, however short the distance between the doorstep and the Block’s sprawling garden had begun to feel.

Rowan, and Juniper, and the red peppering of Holly, and the soft, fluffy catkins of Willow. Each winding path might have taken her somewhere new. But it is impossible to travel all and be one traveler, and in any case she still has a preference.

“I just can’t bloody believe it. I told people you could handle it for a few days. I thought you were responsible.”

“I am.” She rolls her eyes. “Responsible for improvements.” Harry runs a hand through his frazzled hair, spiked with gel and the sweat of revolution. Behind him, Atom wrestles with a freshly-installed, artificially-intelligent, self-check-out machine.

[“Welcome to the Whippoorwill. Please scan your first selected beverage.”]

“For goodness' sake, Acacia, this isn’t your property. You can’t just start changing things without asking.”

“You needed this,” she argues. “You’re both far too attached to the way things were. Progress is inevitable.”

“People like the bar the way it is! How hard is that to understand? We. Like. The. Bloody. Bar.”

[“Please scan your first selected beverage.”]

“Of all the things to fixate on, you’re worried about keeping some revolting old bar top. Not to mention the lamps were so pathetic I couldn’t see any of the liquor stains before I sat down.”

“Right. Now then. You wait just one second–”

“Business is better this way, Harry. We’ve seen a 1.5% increase in sales since–”

[“Please scan your first selected beverage.”]

“Shut the FUCK up!“ he exclaims. “Acacia – just get out. And stay out till we’ve fixed this, right? There’s the door.”

“Right. An actual door. Thanks to me.”

Of all things she had given up, her watch had set the precedent. Most things she had relinquished had, in some small part, been voluntary, but under the patient’s impression that, although they had stripped and donned the gown for surgery, they were certain to see all their belongings again on the other side. A recurring mistake, to plan too far ahead. Nothing can hold firm against eternity.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Street lamplight fades. She cannot see the path anymore, but she does not need to.

She says something uncivilised when her elephant is captured. The gleam in Siphy’s eye suggests her words would have undergone a significant edit before xer transmission. She stares intensely at the board, willing the pieces to move in her favour. At long last, the futility of the matter becomes apparent. They are slower than usual to put the board away that evening.

Densely packed foliage obscures all that remains of the Tower. Glass and concrete, clear and unbreakable, their shards thrust apart and cracks forced further open by undaunted growth. Their creator could not possibly have foreseen it, could not possibly have intended it, and yet his creation, his conviction, had faded away into nothingness. They no longer served a purpose, and defined as they were by it they could not grow past it to conquer that which obscured them. Stagnation.

On her shelf, something new amongst trinkets. A conscientious paper crane.

Her throat burns.

Selca-Clanabe often gives us the grace to do things again and again; we are given the opportunity to repeat ourselves.

Does bleeding out, being emptied of all that which fuels you, bear repeating, if not a single thing remains in your hands to show for it?

To change our actions and to improve, to respond differently this time.

Not one single thing, but a fistful of scraps. A crumpled note, the eight of spades, a bracelet with a sister, a musk rose pressed dry, mere remainders, reminders, that to know is to be pushed back to square one, that to try is to condemn oneself to that familiar déjà-vu, to appending the ledger before repeating the sum, to stoking, again and again, the coals in desperation that they might once again be set alight.

For a while, fine. But she does not want an unlimited supply.

And when we respond poorly, to know that there will be a next time.

The silhouette of the Tower is missing. She aches for the familiar sight of something thrusting itself skyward, propelled by sheer force of will, its ambition defying the equalising force of gravity.

Now there is nothing, save for infinite, beautiful stars.

– by Tara S

It is odd for Acacia to take things one step at a time. There is no planning, there’s not the possibility of it, she, for the first time, lives in the present. The future is endless, but it’s not here yet. And the past - she doesn’t want to dwell on it. But she must, she must avoid being the person she once was.

Cycles. It scares Acacia that she could so easily fall into the same old routine and once again be the person she once was. Complicit. So she doesn’t allow herself to fall into such a routine.

Each day is different, consisting entirely of what Acacia found most appealing when she woke up that morning. The only part of her day that remains the same is her mornings with Siphy. Eating breakfast and doing the crossword before parting ways, a moment of togetherness before they start their separate lives.

She won’t be participating in sky-diving any time soon but she forces herself out of her comfort zone. She has a million hobbies: crochet, collage, reading, painting. She works with her hands.

The hobby that she comes back to the most, perhaps, is the garden. It’s beautiful and every time she visits it’s never quite the same as last time. There is always a new type of flower blooming, a new person sitting amongst the leaves.

She makes new friends and stays in contact with old ones. Judyth and her spend time in the garden, a quiet understanding of each other underneath all their small talk. She sees Shelly frequently, they finish watching House and then playfully argue about what to watch next. She visits the Whippoorwill, Harry, as much as it pains her to admit, is a friend. A close friend. And she visits Jude and Lev, as painful as it is. She must remind herself what she cannot be.

Acacia wants to begin again, to be a person who focuses more on the journey than the destination, she wants to improve. She knows it will be difficult, breaking a lifetime's worth of habits, but she has eternity. She has plenty of moments alone to reflect. And she has moments with friends. Moments of peace and moments of joy. And for the first time she thinks her future looks bright.