\hypertarget{systime-27876}{%
\section*{systime 278+76\blfootnote{17 March, 2402}}\label{systime-27876}}

It is my birthday. It is \emph{our} birthday. A large chunk of the third stanza, plus a few Odists besides, has gathered tonight at a small restaurant serving hand shaved noodles and steamed dumplings that we might celebrate 316 years.

It is a night of the savory tang of black vinegar and chili oil, of laughing over the fact that I can barely eat the noodles and yet that I can eat two dumplings at once, while the humans within the clade --- and, at one point, the owners of the restaurant --- have to bite the dumplings in half.

There will be another celebration in two days, when Purim comes around, and I am sure that, at that point, we will all gather with our own and throw parties that are very uniquely us. There are years that Purim will fall on our birthday, and it is those years when we will so many of us gather, take over some field or some enormous buffet and the room, the springtime will be filled with us.

This year, though, two days off, and we are merely here for a dinner, a chance to eat chicken and chive dumplings by the dozen and bowls of noodles the size of our heads.

It has been thirty-five days since Yom HaShichzur. Five weeks since I stood before thousands, stood before those here sys-side and those back in the embodied world and stammered my way through a short speech.

It has been two weeks since I started to be reeled back into my body, since the burning heat of dissociation was once more quenched, but still there is a prickling on the back of my neck that at times catches me unawares.

Tonight, there is such joy as I have not had in some time. Oh, But To Whom made us promise that we would not speak of the Century Attack. She made me promise that I would not speak of HaShichzur, too, because she knows me, knows that I do tend to at times go on, and she loves me and I love her too, and so I have not.

And so tonight there is so much joy as we celebrate our birthday.

After dinner, a few of us go for a walk, for across the road from the restaurant is a lake, placid, with a wide soft-surface path ringing it. Trees --- Douglas firs for the most part, though there is a notable willow whose weeping branches reach nearly to the surface of the water, stopping just shy --- line the path, alternating on which side. That road often has cars driving along it, for there are many who still like the things, but it is easy enough to cross, and the cars provide only the soft whoosh of the wind of their passing without much more. It is prosaic in the way that any town might at times be. It is soft. It is lived in, and loved. It is home for many, and we can feel that.

Rav From Whence and I walk paw in paw while beside us walks Unknowable Spaces.

There is within us I think a certain yearning for the void. There is a part of us that is avid for death --- voluptuous, complete, and final death --- and thus it looms large at times in our thoughts. Whether or not this is due to the traumas of the past, the ways in which we came close --- \emph{so} close --- to death, we do not know.

It has, however, concentrated in various different ways throughout the clade. I do not myself yearn for death --- none of us are suicidal, I believe, or none of us still extant on the System --- but it does occupy a small part of my mind most hours of the day.

Perhaps such is inevitable for one such as me: I am a tricentenarian; I am an Odist; and I am one who concerns herself most with matters of faith. There is law, yes, Torah and Talmud and halakha, but among these are matters of the soul. I have written papers and papers on the shifting views of life and death within Judaism, of the ways in which we conceive of a soul, of what comes after the end. I have written on heaven and hell, and the return to the concept of Sheol, and the idea that has taken hold of nullity as what there is after death. There is nothing, we say, but the joy of life, and the never-ending silence. The tranquility of the world to come, we say, is the tranquility that others may have because we have left the world a better place.

Ah, but Unknowable Spaces!

She is one of those among us who splashes in death. She and Slow Hours and The Only Constant and a handful of others all together contain our death-thoughts. They do not just yearn, but they \emph{obsess.}

She dwells in the realm of grief. She breathes the sorrow of loss. She lives through the pain, and in it, she finds holiness.

It would not be wrong to say that she has been busy since the Century Attack.

Despite our differing interests, we are still cocladists, and bear our similarities for that. We both have our hyperfixations. We both remain skunks. We both dress for the most part in loose earth tones, though she in skirts and blouses and me most often in linen trousers and a tunic. She will at times wear a tichel and at times a sun hat while I stick stolidly to my `skunkerchief', as Rav so endearingly called it when first I adopted it, a simple kerchief tied to keep my mane out of my face and my hair, such as it is, covered.

``What Right Have I, From Whence says that you were overflowing,'' she begins. Her voice is always so quiet and so calm. Another contrast with me, I suppose. Every time I am around her I am reminded of the ways in which we are comfortably contradictory. We are complements to each other in many ways. ``How are you feeling? Has it let up completely now?''

``I believe so. I have\ldots ah, that is, I am feeling better, though I have been left in an uncomfortable state of mind. I remain\ldots mm\ldots{}'' I trail off, at a loss for words.

``You do seem a little bit more emotional than usual,'' Rav From Whence hazards. ``It is not in any way bad, you just seem more\ldots labile is not quite the right word, but you are quite sensitive to emotional shifts.''

``That is\ldots ah, I think that is accurate enough,'' I reply, giving Rav's paw a grateful squeeze in my own. ``Though I think that I am struggling in particular with the discomfort of frustration or\ldots mm, I suppose it is a sort of fury.''

``\,`Fury'?'' Unknowable Spaces asks, and I take what calm from the calm in her voice. ``What makes you choose that word?''

``Anger is hot, but\ldots ah, but this feeling is cold. It is steady, not flaring. It is almost respectful. It is almost kind. It is\ldots ah, well, I am going to talk in circles, if I continue.''

She levels her searching gaze on me, and as so often happens with her when she has fallen into that very particular sort of empathy that she so often displays, I feel nearly translucent. I feel like she can see beneath the surface, can see some truer shape of me. She sees my soul. She sees that essence of me, and her empathy is borne of imagining what the world would be without it.

I bear it as best I an, though I can only meet her gaze in short moments before it feels as though such empathy will bleed me dry.

``Is this fury serving you?'' she says at last.

``I do not yet know. It is\ldots ah, I am still piecing together where it is directed.''

Rav speaks up, saying, ``It sounded as though it was directed at HaShem.''

``It was\ldots ah, it \emph{is,} yes, for Their silence and distance, but it is also directed at death, for its complicity, and it is also directed at us, at humanity, for what we are capable of, and it is\ldots ah, it is also directed at myself for my lack of control over my emotions.''

Unknowable Spaces nods, watching me still.

``I think that\ldots ah, that I am still struggling to differentiate it from overflow,'' I admit. ``Even these many days later, yes? I am\ldots ah, it does not feel quite\ldots real, I suppose. Until it does, I do not think that it will be serving me, no. Until I can direct it, then\ldots ah, then perhaps it will have meaning.''

``And this is why you say you have been left with this feeling after overflow?''

``Yes. It is\ldots ah, it is not overflow, but neither is it wholly separate. It is-- ah\ldots{} I am talking in circles. I am still thinking in circles.''

My down-tree gives my paw a reassuring squeeze in her own. ``You may if you wish, my dear. If speaking in circles offers relief, perhaps you should.''

I look down to my paws as they pad along the trail, claws leaving faint divots in hard-packed earth. I look down and I try to figure out what dividing line might be drawn between the numinous emotions of a mind unbound and mere fury.

``I think that\ldots ah, that what I am experiencing is an earnest anger, but what I am missing is the words to express it, or even a clear direction in which it is pointed. There are options, yes --- HaShem, the world, me, what-have-you --- but\ldots mm, well, that is all so vague. It is\ldots well, I do not know the directionality. If I am facing HaShem and it is directed at me, what does that mean? If I look within and find it blaring out at the world, then what? And here I have said that it is pointed at all of those things, but I am\ldots ah, rather, it is all so indistinct, and so it is difficult for me to piece together why I am even feeling it.'' I offer my cocladists a weak smile. ``An indistinct emotion that\ldots ah, that I am not sure why I am feeling is a common feature of overflow, yes?''

It is some time before Unknowable Spaces replies, and we have made it another quarter of the way around the lake. ``Do you miss your understanding of the world before the Attack?''

I furrow my brow and scuff my foot against a rock, figuring that I might kick it along the path for a ways as we walk. It is immobile, and I lose a half-step trying to figure out just what has happened.

Within me, that fury wheels about on myself. \emph{Stupid skunk,} I think, and my inner voice is a growl. \emph{You look a fool. Stammering and tripping and cursing the world\ldots{}}

I hate myself, in this moment. I loathe myself. I wrote this sentiment before and there it is in a flash: I hate this me. She is \emph{intolerable.} I do not want to be around her. I cannot stand her\ldots{}

But no, even that fades as the direction of the emotion drifts away. I do my best to simply drop it, to set my anger down there by the rock and hope that it stays.

``I miss\ldots ah, I miss that version of me who believed that something like this could never happen, yes,'' I say at last. ``I miss a world in which the Century Attack is unthinkable.''

Unknowable Spaces takes up my other paw, smiles her ever-sad smile, and we the three of us walk in silence for some time, paw in paw, taking the evening air.

I do my best to leave my anger with that immobile rock that I had tried to kick, and instead just count all of the different smells around. I try to feel the difference, without changing our grips, between Rav's paw and Unknowable Spaces's. I try to be present.

It mostly works, and we say goodbye to Unknowable Spaces with kisses to the cheek and smiles.

Rav sends me to bed with my own kiss, and now here I am, feeling as though my fury, that undirected emotion that I had left tangled around an immobile rock, is being reeled in as easily as had been my soul only some days prior, and I wonder what will happen when it at last catches up with me.
