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Apr. 9th, 2016 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thevoiceofnightvaleI wrote this because I have been using this mind-set and whatnot for Cecil in Carvaka for closing in on a year now, but because I'm slow and threads are disparate, I hadn't really ever put all of this character stuff in one place.
---
It was a truth of his life in Night Vale that he only ever was what it was that he was.
He was only ever Cecil the Radio Host. Or Cecil the Intern or Cecil the Scientist's Boyfriend. Or, sometimes, rarely, Cecil the friend. And once, a long time ago, lost mostly to time and the inevitable decay of memories, Cecil the son. He changed what Cecil he was, depending on time or the person he was with, but he was always Cecil and he was always himself.
It was a truth of Between that he was often someone else.
There was no radio station, so he was not Cecil the Radio Host. He had never been Cecil the Intern. He had never been the Voice of Night Vale, here, and he was not the Voice of Between, though he still played at it. Here, he was just Cecil and often times, he was some other version of Cecil, some Cecil who was not him, at the whim of birds, or books, or candles. Those Cecils often did not remember him, but he remembered all of them. He remembered every moment, every time he was not the Cecil he knew himself to be.
It is a truth of both Between and Night Vale that there are two kinds of happiness.
There is a low-key, warm sort of happiness, a thing that gets you up out of bed in the morning, that has you smile genuinely at strangers, that keeps you from becoming cold, distant. Some people never know this, or learn only how to cultivate it when they have the second kind of happiness, or when they feel things are going perfectly. Cecil had never been one of those people. Cecil had spent his entire adult life in various states of "alone". Cecil was happy alone. He was someone who could find that warmth in a nice walk home or a job well done or a patch of unexpectedly good Weather. He was this sort of happy in Night Vale and he was this sort of happy in Between in much the same way—easily, thoughtlessly, to the point where he took it for granted.
(This is the happiness Renart threatened in his kitchen. The violation of this is what sent him into the arms of the Nogitsune. This is what was missing for the months between and what he went into the desert, successfully, to reclaim.)
But there is also another kind of happiness. It is, perhaps, (and incorrectly) more what people think of when they consider the question of whether or not they are happy. The first kind of happiness is one of the self, one found in empty rooms and quiet sunsets and knowing oneself. The second is everything else. It is all the happiness that relies on other people, on moments of sharing, communion. It is, perhaps, superficial, but it is much more intense and wider-reaching than the quiet kind. It is not low-key or warm. It is soaring and hot and passionate. It is the flames to the embers of the other. If the first is what keeps you alive, the second is what makes you feel it.
It was a truth of Night Vale that he was often the first sort, but rarely the second.
It was a truth of Between that the first was present, though sometimes tenuous, but he was very, very often the second. It was an emergent truth, something he had felt in the desert but was still coming to terms with, that he was overall happier here, that while the fundamental contentedness that had defined his life was forever shattered and could not be reclaimed, he liked those brilliant flares, that he had been living a life too quiet, in Night Vale.
And, for a while, that was how the sentence ended. There was a bit of a trade-off and life was different and happiness was more fleeting, more difficult, but more incandescent than before. Carlos mostly fed the first kind of happiness, a sort of balance to his life he had never needed in Night Vale, where Carlos was mostly the second kind of happiness, but overly welcome here, more gentle. Monty mostly fed the second, passionate and strange and difficult but worth it, for the strangeness and the highs.
But lying awake at night staring at the ceiling, while Monty was off in Renart's bed (or someone else's, he never pried) and Carlos was off at the laboratory (or someone's bed, he never pried) Cecil was slowly starting to see a pattern emerging in regards to happiness. There were exceptions to the pattern! There were always exceptions in a pattern and some of those exceptions were meaningful, beautiful, because they always were. But exceptions, even meaningful, beautiful ones, do not negate a pattern—though they can make it harder to see the pattern, postpone the revelation. But once he started to see it, there was no unseeing it, only the slow clicking of thoughts into place until the picture they made was undeniable.
It was a truth of Between that he made other people happier, to a man, when he was not himself.
It is not that they were not happy with him when he was himself! He was loved by more people than he had ever been before. He was liked and invited into the beds of more people than before. He had won the heart, such as it was, of a creature of chaos and darkness and he had forged friendships with people both strange and ordinary. And yet the pattern remained, stubbornly, a trail of encounters that had been more intense, more intimate, more loving, easier, for him being altered. And then he was Just Cecil again, and everything was difficult and full of sharp edges, trying to pick up the pieces of life that remained around all the alterations, trying to ignore what had happened while he had been Not Cecil and carry on with the life he was making for himself as Just Cecil.
It was getting harder to ignore. The pattern, the ebb and flow of his happiness, the truth that he was happier, sometimes, when he could forget everything, assisted at home by Armagnac and here by the strange properties of the world. The uncomfortable feeling that maybe he had more to offer when he was altered because he carried less with him. The feeling that what he was carrying with him was too heavy for him, but that he didn't know how to set it down. The slow, creeping realization that he had never known how to set it down. The understanding that part of what had happened in the desert was that he had left, that he hadn't had to deal with any of it, his tangled life and his feelings, he could just be Cecil, without anyone around and without having to answer to anything. A realization that sometimes, only sometimes but very much sometimes, he longed for those times when he forgot everything and could be whatever was demanded of him in the moment.
It was a truth of his life in Night Vale that he drank to forget how alone he was and how little he mattered in the Universe.
It was a truth of Between that he found himself craving those times when he could forget how interconnected he was and how important.
It was a truth about life, particularly life when the sun has gone down and the only sound you can hear is your own breath in your lungs, that knowing a truth and knowing what to do about it were two very, very different things.
---
It was a truth of his life in Night Vale that he only ever was what it was that he was.
He was only ever Cecil the Radio Host. Or Cecil the Intern or Cecil the Scientist's Boyfriend. Or, sometimes, rarely, Cecil the friend. And once, a long time ago, lost mostly to time and the inevitable decay of memories, Cecil the son. He changed what Cecil he was, depending on time or the person he was with, but he was always Cecil and he was always himself.
It was a truth of Between that he was often someone else.
There was no radio station, so he was not Cecil the Radio Host. He had never been Cecil the Intern. He had never been the Voice of Night Vale, here, and he was not the Voice of Between, though he still played at it. Here, he was just Cecil and often times, he was some other version of Cecil, some Cecil who was not him, at the whim of birds, or books, or candles. Those Cecils often did not remember him, but he remembered all of them. He remembered every moment, every time he was not the Cecil he knew himself to be.
It is a truth of both Between and Night Vale that there are two kinds of happiness.
There is a low-key, warm sort of happiness, a thing that gets you up out of bed in the morning, that has you smile genuinely at strangers, that keeps you from becoming cold, distant. Some people never know this, or learn only how to cultivate it when they have the second kind of happiness, or when they feel things are going perfectly. Cecil had never been one of those people. Cecil had spent his entire adult life in various states of "alone". Cecil was happy alone. He was someone who could find that warmth in a nice walk home or a job well done or a patch of unexpectedly good Weather. He was this sort of happy in Night Vale and he was this sort of happy in Between in much the same way—easily, thoughtlessly, to the point where he took it for granted.
(This is the happiness Renart threatened in his kitchen. The violation of this is what sent him into the arms of the Nogitsune. This is what was missing for the months between and what he went into the desert, successfully, to reclaim.)
But there is also another kind of happiness. It is, perhaps, (and incorrectly) more what people think of when they consider the question of whether or not they are happy. The first kind of happiness is one of the self, one found in empty rooms and quiet sunsets and knowing oneself. The second is everything else. It is all the happiness that relies on other people, on moments of sharing, communion. It is, perhaps, superficial, but it is much more intense and wider-reaching than the quiet kind. It is not low-key or warm. It is soaring and hot and passionate. It is the flames to the embers of the other. If the first is what keeps you alive, the second is what makes you feel it.
It was a truth of Night Vale that he was often the first sort, but rarely the second.
It was a truth of Between that the first was present, though sometimes tenuous, but he was very, very often the second. It was an emergent truth, something he had felt in the desert but was still coming to terms with, that he was overall happier here, that while the fundamental contentedness that had defined his life was forever shattered and could not be reclaimed, he liked those brilliant flares, that he had been living a life too quiet, in Night Vale.
And, for a while, that was how the sentence ended. There was a bit of a trade-off and life was different and happiness was more fleeting, more difficult, but more incandescent than before. Carlos mostly fed the first kind of happiness, a sort of balance to his life he had never needed in Night Vale, where Carlos was mostly the second kind of happiness, but overly welcome here, more gentle. Monty mostly fed the second, passionate and strange and difficult but worth it, for the strangeness and the highs.
But lying awake at night staring at the ceiling, while Monty was off in Renart's bed (or someone else's, he never pried) and Carlos was off at the laboratory (or someone's bed, he never pried) Cecil was slowly starting to see a pattern emerging in regards to happiness. There were exceptions to the pattern! There were always exceptions in a pattern and some of those exceptions were meaningful, beautiful, because they always were. But exceptions, even meaningful, beautiful ones, do not negate a pattern—though they can make it harder to see the pattern, postpone the revelation. But once he started to see it, there was no unseeing it, only the slow clicking of thoughts into place until the picture they made was undeniable.
It was a truth of Between that he made other people happier, to a man, when he was not himself.
It is not that they were not happy with him when he was himself! He was loved by more people than he had ever been before. He was liked and invited into the beds of more people than before. He had won the heart, such as it was, of a creature of chaos and darkness and he had forged friendships with people both strange and ordinary. And yet the pattern remained, stubbornly, a trail of encounters that had been more intense, more intimate, more loving, easier, for him being altered. And then he was Just Cecil again, and everything was difficult and full of sharp edges, trying to pick up the pieces of life that remained around all the alterations, trying to ignore what had happened while he had been Not Cecil and carry on with the life he was making for himself as Just Cecil.
It was getting harder to ignore. The pattern, the ebb and flow of his happiness, the truth that he was happier, sometimes, when he could forget everything, assisted at home by Armagnac and here by the strange properties of the world. The uncomfortable feeling that maybe he had more to offer when he was altered because he carried less with him. The feeling that what he was carrying with him was too heavy for him, but that he didn't know how to set it down. The slow, creeping realization that he had never known how to set it down. The understanding that part of what had happened in the desert was that he had left, that he hadn't had to deal with any of it, his tangled life and his feelings, he could just be Cecil, without anyone around and without having to answer to anything. A realization that sometimes, only sometimes but very much sometimes, he longed for those times when he forgot everything and could be whatever was demanded of him in the moment.
It was a truth of his life in Night Vale that he drank to forget how alone he was and how little he mattered in the Universe.
It was a truth of Between that he found himself craving those times when he could forget how interconnected he was and how important.
It was a truth about life, particularly life when the sun has gone down and the only sound you can hear is your own breath in your lungs, that knowing a truth and knowing what to do about it were two very, very different things.
