[Jecht Sphere 01] yeah. you.
Sing a song or write a poem. Hah. Yeah, right.
...
So why wasn't he letting it be?
He could just walk up there and sing the hymn and be done with it. Seriously. That's all he'd have to do. There's no reason at all for him to actually put out any effort in this. He just signed up 'cause it was something to do.
It's not like he has any talent for this kind of thing. This was Daja's area, not his. She was the artist. The poet. Y'know, the creative one.
...
It's the challenge of it. That's gotta be it. He's not about to lay down and give up. He's too stubborn for that. So what if he's never done this kind of thing before? That doesn't mean he can't. He's the Great Jecht. He can do anything!
...
He can't stop thinking about Daja.
Jecht runs his hands over his face and sighs. He can't stop thinking about Daja, and they haven't seen Braska in forever. They even looked. He and Auron looked fucking everywhere and they can't find him.
And he can't stop thinking about Daja.
...
She'd love this. She always loved poetry competitions. Maybe she was quiet, but she didn't back down from stuff like that. Even if she didn't believe in herself, she believed in what she did. What she wrote. (believed in him, even when he wasn't the best husband -- or person -- ever.) She didn't back down because she wanted the words to be heard. That's why she wrote, she told him once. Because she had to get the words out. They were there, alive in her head, and it was her job to make them beautiful and share them with the world.
And even if he never went to any of her readings, he still looked over her shoulder when she was working now and then. She used to stay up all night, writing. He'd be gone for hours for practice or for a game, and when he came back she'd still be up. Daj was a neat person, always kept everything in order (which was the only reason their house didn't look like shit), but when she worked, there were papers everywhere. Desk, floor, chairs, her lap, everywhere. He'd come over and look over her shoulder or pick up some of her drafts off the furniture, and he never understood why she threw it aside. To him, everything she wrote was beautiful. She just... had this way with words. And ideas. And images. She could take the ugliest damn cat in the world and make it gorgeous in her poetry.
...
Fuck, he missed her.
Jecht stares at the sunset for a long time. One sunset, two sunsets, three sunsets go by. He makes sure he can't be found so he can be alone with his thoughts. (He's always alone with his thoughts. He has been for a really long time. He has been for ten years. Feels like longer. Feels like forever. Forever of killing and screaming and guilt and fighting and hiding and hating himself and listening to the hymn to remain sane and hating Yevon and missing DajaAuronBraskaTidusZanarkandBlitzballLife. Feels like forever. Feels like...)
He remembers the contest, eventually. Right. Right. That's why he's out here, thinking of his wife. Jecht takes a deep breath in, lets out a slow exhale. Right. Okay, yeah.
...
That's why he can't back down. This is for her. This poem he's going to write? It's for her. He doesn't care if no one listening will know. He doesn't care if everyone listening will know. This is for her. His Daja. His Daj. This is for you.
He picks himself up off the ground and heads back into town. He needs a pencil and paper. Lots of paper.
Sunsets. City lights. Stillness in chaos. Words. Quiet moments. Sunrises. Stupid nicknames. Laughter.
Jecht wastes a hell of a lot of paper. Oh, well, he paid for it, it doesn't really matter. He's got two days to get this thing done. Even though he wants to stop sometimes and pull out his hair and just give up or take a break, he doesn't. Daja didn't, so he won't. This is for her. He'll do it her way.
It's hard, though. He doesn't know the rules and he's not good with words, and his attention span isn't the greatest. He gets frustrated really easily. He learns that writing is harder than he thought it was, especially when he wants to do this right. Especially when something in the back of his mind is laughing at him. Look at the Great Jecht, writing romantic poetry! What a girl. What would all your fans think if they saw you now? But then he'll think of Daja, think of what she'd think if she saw him. He thinks... She'd smile. Maybe she'd offer to help -- no, she'd back off and let him do it on his own. She knew him, had him memorized, like the words she wrote. He's too prideful. Too stubborn. He wants to do it himself, so she'd let him.
In the end, he thinks he's got it. Hopes he's got it. He doesn't want to look at it any more because it makes him sick, so he'll just have to leave it as it is and just. Pray for the best. (Pray? To who? ... To Daja. Wish me luck, hun.)
So maybe I'm not the best at this, but I'm gonna give it a try.
This shit always makes me think of you, so why the hell not?
Yeah. You.
You can sit really still, did you know that?
The whole room could be falling to pieces and you'd just stand there
Stand there and smile.
Maybe you're staring at something. Maybe you're writing about it in your head.
I don't really know. Don't think I ever knew. What goes on in that head of yours?
Maybe I should know by now, but I don't. Wish I had more time to learn.
Wish I had more time to try again.
To show you the sunsets again. The sunrises. Watch the whole city light up in the sun.
Watch the whole city light up because you smiled.
Wish I could show you the stars. We couldn't really see 'em in the city, you know? Never really thought about it.
But man... Those stars. The ones in Spira. You would've loved them.
I bet you could write a whole anthology of poems about them. You're good at that.
I'm not, really. I'm shit with words. But you breathe them, the most beautiful words in the world.
So you could write this better. Ten times better.
But it's up to me, now.
So, damn it all, I'm doing it, 'cause you'd want me to.
Yeah. You.
Jecht stares at the poem for a long, long time. And then he groans.
"Fuck, I'm gonna have to read this in front of people."
...
So why wasn't he letting it be?
He could just walk up there and sing the hymn and be done with it. Seriously. That's all he'd have to do. There's no reason at all for him to actually put out any effort in this. He just signed up 'cause it was something to do.
It's not like he has any talent for this kind of thing. This was Daja's area, not his. She was the artist. The poet. Y'know, the creative one.
...
It's the challenge of it. That's gotta be it. He's not about to lay down and give up. He's too stubborn for that. So what if he's never done this kind of thing before? That doesn't mean he can't. He's the Great Jecht. He can do anything!
...
He can't stop thinking about Daja.
Jecht runs his hands over his face and sighs. He can't stop thinking about Daja, and they haven't seen Braska in forever. They even looked. He and Auron looked fucking everywhere and they can't find him.
And he can't stop thinking about Daja.
...
She'd love this. She always loved poetry competitions. Maybe she was quiet, but she didn't back down from stuff like that. Even if she didn't believe in herself, she believed in what she did. What she wrote. (believed in him, even when he wasn't the best husband -- or person -- ever.) She didn't back down because she wanted the words to be heard. That's why she wrote, she told him once. Because she had to get the words out. They were there, alive in her head, and it was her job to make them beautiful and share them with the world.
And even if he never went to any of her readings, he still looked over her shoulder when she was working now and then. She used to stay up all night, writing. He'd be gone for hours for practice or for a game, and when he came back she'd still be up. Daj was a neat person, always kept everything in order (which was the only reason their house didn't look like shit), but when she worked, there were papers everywhere. Desk, floor, chairs, her lap, everywhere. He'd come over and look over her shoulder or pick up some of her drafts off the furniture, and he never understood why she threw it aside. To him, everything she wrote was beautiful. She just... had this way with words. And ideas. And images. She could take the ugliest damn cat in the world and make it gorgeous in her poetry.
...
Fuck, he missed her.
Jecht stares at the sunset for a long time. One sunset, two sunsets, three sunsets go by. He makes sure he can't be found so he can be alone with his thoughts. (He's always alone with his thoughts. He has been for a really long time. He has been for ten years. Feels like longer. Feels like forever. Forever of killing and screaming and guilt and fighting and hiding and hating himself and listening to the hymn to remain sane and hating Yevon and missing DajaAuronBraskaTidusZanarkandBlitzballLife. Feels like forever. Feels like...)
He remembers the contest, eventually. Right. Right. That's why he's out here, thinking of his wife. Jecht takes a deep breath in, lets out a slow exhale. Right. Okay, yeah.
...
That's why he can't back down. This is for her. This poem he's going to write? It's for her. He doesn't care if no one listening will know. He doesn't care if everyone listening will know. This is for her. His Daja. His Daj. This is for you.
He picks himself up off the ground and heads back into town. He needs a pencil and paper. Lots of paper.
Sunsets. City lights. Stillness in chaos. Words. Quiet moments. Sunrises. Stupid nicknames. Laughter.
Jecht wastes a hell of a lot of paper. Oh, well, he paid for it, it doesn't really matter. He's got two days to get this thing done. Even though he wants to stop sometimes and pull out his hair and just give up or take a break, he doesn't. Daja didn't, so he won't. This is for her. He'll do it her way.
It's hard, though. He doesn't know the rules and he's not good with words, and his attention span isn't the greatest. He gets frustrated really easily. He learns that writing is harder than he thought it was, especially when he wants to do this right. Especially when something in the back of his mind is laughing at him. Look at the Great Jecht, writing romantic poetry! What a girl. What would all your fans think if they saw you now? But then he'll think of Daja, think of what she'd think if she saw him. He thinks... She'd smile. Maybe she'd offer to help -- no, she'd back off and let him do it on his own. She knew him, had him memorized, like the words she wrote. He's too prideful. Too stubborn. He wants to do it himself, so she'd let him.
In the end, he thinks he's got it. Hopes he's got it. He doesn't want to look at it any more because it makes him sick, so he'll just have to leave it as it is and just. Pray for the best. (Pray? To who? ... To Daja. Wish me luck, hun.)
So maybe I'm not the best at this, but I'm gonna give it a try.
This shit always makes me think of you, so why the hell not?
Yeah. You.
You can sit really still, did you know that?
The whole room could be falling to pieces and you'd just stand there
Stand there and smile.
Maybe you're staring at something. Maybe you're writing about it in your head.
I don't really know. Don't think I ever knew. What goes on in that head of yours?
Maybe I should know by now, but I don't. Wish I had more time to learn.
Wish I had more time to try again.
To show you the sunsets again. The sunrises. Watch the whole city light up in the sun.
Watch the whole city light up because you smiled.
Wish I could show you the stars. We couldn't really see 'em in the city, you know? Never really thought about it.
But man... Those stars. The ones in Spira. You would've loved them.
I bet you could write a whole anthology of poems about them. You're good at that.
I'm not, really. I'm shit with words. But you breathe them, the most beautiful words in the world.
So you could write this better. Ten times better.
But it's up to me, now.
So, damn it all, I'm doing it, 'cause you'd want me to.
Yeah. You.
Jecht stares at the poem for a long, long time. And then he groans.
"Fuck, I'm gonna have to read this in front of people."