No interest... means relatively little, Irhya. I've no interest in causing your death or that of your counterparts. But that won't stop either of us, will it?
[It was a passive desire, on the level of a general hope for things to be different somehow... and just as useless. His tone speaks of a growing frustration, though it's directed less at Irhya and more at... everything. At having information he can do nothing with, at not even knowing whether taking it back with him would be enough (Would he even believe the absurdity of this place to be anything but a dream? And how would it feel to lose everyone here?). Not knowing was the hinge of a great many of his problems.
People kept telling him there was no proof that they wouldn't remember all of this on a return home. But he didn't want to believe that; having hope that he could change things had just made him feel worse once he realized how slight his odds were, and how little there seemed he could do to increase them. At least not having anything to believe in offered stability in its misery.]
Do you really think I should have hope? For what? At this point- 'tis the same thing as denial.
[It's a thought that has him bristle slightly underneath her, irritated at his own contradiction. He didn't want to be told it was useless, to give up- but he didn't want to be offered the suggestion of hope either. He didn't know how to bear losing it again.]
Of course I'll continue. It's not as though I can do otherwise. But that's not... that's not the same as believing that anything will come of it.
no subject
[It was a passive desire, on the level of a general hope for things to be different somehow... and just as useless. His tone speaks of a growing frustration, though it's directed less at Irhya and more at... everything. At having information he can do nothing with, at not even knowing whether taking it back with him would be enough (Would he even believe the absurdity of this place to be anything but a dream? And how would it feel to lose everyone here?). Not knowing was the hinge of a great many of his problems.
People kept telling him there was no proof that they wouldn't remember all of this on a return home. But he didn't want to believe that; having hope that he could change things had just made him feel worse once he realized how slight his odds were, and how little there seemed he could do to increase them. At least not having anything to believe in offered stability in its misery.]
Do you really think I should have hope? For what? At this point- 'tis the same thing as denial.
[It's a thought that has him bristle slightly underneath her, irritated at his own contradiction. He didn't want to be told it was useless, to give up- but he didn't want to be offered the suggestion of hope either. He didn't know how to bear losing it again.]
Of course I'll continue. It's not as though I can do otherwise. But that's not... that's not the same as believing that anything will come of it.