scenes from a dying empire

She is pacing again, anxious again, frustrated again--I feel trapped is what she told me, and I wanted to tell her I understood but I'm not sure I do. I wanted to tell her I could help but I can't. All I can do is watch, and listen. I'd offer a shoulder to cry on but she doesn't like being touched. She is my friend and she is suffering and there is nothing I can do about it.

(She has told me so many times you are helping just by being there and it is sweet of her to think of my feelings even at a time like this. It breaks my heart, but it's sweet.)

We used to come up here sometimes, when the days were getting long and the nights were just warm enough, to get away from it all, to leave behind who we were by day and just be us, whoever we were. I'm not sure either of us knew. It was a place of comfort then; now we mostly come up here when the world is too much. A place to worry. I hate that I'm starting to dread coming up here. I think she is, too, which doesn't help. This was our place.

She stops pacing, looks at me, and sort of freezes. Like she wants to say something, or scream, or keep pacing, but she can't. Her hands clench and twitch and finally she turns away and says it's too much. It's too big.

And at first I don't understand but--of course. I've been feeling it too, I think. Once, a long time ago, there were places where it wasn't encroaching. It being--hmm. The death throes of a dying empire? But there is so much else. It's not just overwhelming because of how vast it is, but because of how minuscule, how trivial. Even the trivial has been devoured by this creeping sense of--

--of being trapped.

She sees the understanding in my face, smiles a bittersweet smile, and tells me I don't know how much longer I can do this. My breath catches, but you're here. That's enough.

At least at night everything is peaceful. The city is asleep, the stars are shining, and if we must be prisoners here, at least we are here together.