January 20th 2019
One of the things we shall need to be careful of is thinking we know each other. We don't. There's a central mystery to Sparrow that I must excavate for myself because she doesn't even recognise it exists, let alone that it's buried, and that is where the ability to plot a course and navigate it came from.
One might say, "My parents were always very distant, which is why I find it hard to express affection," and another one might say, "My parents were always very distant, which is why I express affection so readily," and they're both probably right. Sparrow says neither. Without history or the precedent or the destiny of predisposition and preoccupation, she plots the course of where she wants to be, gathers supplies, trims the canvas, takes a bearing and sets off.
That's what I don't know about her and what she can't tell me: most of us are enslaved by where we've been, she's enchanted by where she's going.
You can't change the past. You can only make the future. The former is futile. The latter is the only hope. And now is the only time we have to do anything. Xx
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