I know you've done it before to them, but here's where it ends, and where I stand.
He was never this studious at Xavier's. They'd be pleased to see him now, no matter how many times his restless nature demands he stand up and bounce that stupid ball off of Hato's empty bed. Then again, he senses instinctually that what he's doing isn't the same thing, only the semblence; he doesn't read for pleasure or a grade, but simply seeking answers. Before, he would not have chosen to turn to books, but that was before he came to strange and alienating places where those books are living breathing in your face people.
Liz and Henry, he's noticed, don't really talk about the nexus, and routinely do not make it part of their lives. This is more than understandable on a practical level, given the kind of bizarre shit that goes on there, but the absence seems significant if not conspicuous. It isn't unmentionable, which would be ridiculous given the fact that none of them belong together naturally, but there is a sense of restraint. He's seen how others treat it, like some demented personal Wonderland, and it seems both absolutely insane and weirdly joyful. Then there's the minority who treat it, for the most part, like what it pretty much is: an unpredictable portal of chaos capable of spitting out both amusements and, frankly, eldritch horrors the likes of which are virtually unrecorded by man (see: H.P. Lovecraft). There's not really a big values difference there. It's just a matter of choosing reality. That much, John's figured out.
How much string is in the world.
Who has it.
Both his choices seem wrong. In that case he's just going to have to suck it up and go. It seems like he figured that out years ago, as if there is an ultimate answer to every life and his is to suck it up and go. This time is different, but the answer is still the same: that's what he's learned to be wary of, the mistakes that become patterns that become you when you aren't thinking, just living. The books, despite being real in a place John can only wander mindlessly into, don't have the answers, or require more time (there is no more time) or more experience than he's acquired so far to comprehend.
Consider the cold and tomatoes come together
and how of course I’d love to have you.
Here, have a balloon. Have two.
Arguments with Marie aren't as comfortable as they used to be, because she's becoming someone new now and that's good and what he wanted because if he can't have what he really wants then he'll want something else for his own sake. For example, he doesn't want to be right (although he still believes he is). For example, he's glad Marie found something from life (this is angrily not quite a lie). His tongue is clumsy, he feels obvious in ways he never felt before, not really because she got closer than she had before but because you can't teach what you can't sell. When he goes back, he'll still be a child.
Reality, though, is what you can get away with. And the reality is only that he hasn't been split in two before. He's always known what he's wanted, and he's always gone after it to the best of his ability. So this is what everybody wants. But he thinks he knows what Magneto would say about that.
Liz and Henry, he's noticed, don't really talk about the nexus, and routinely do not make it part of their lives. This is more than understandable on a practical level, given the kind of bizarre shit that goes on there, but the absence seems significant if not conspicuous. It isn't unmentionable, which would be ridiculous given the fact that none of them belong together naturally, but there is a sense of restraint. He's seen how others treat it, like some demented personal Wonderland, and it seems both absolutely insane and weirdly joyful. Then there's the minority who treat it, for the most part, like what it pretty much is: an unpredictable portal of chaos capable of spitting out both amusements and, frankly, eldritch horrors the likes of which are virtually unrecorded by man (see: H.P. Lovecraft). There's not really a big values difference there. It's just a matter of choosing reality. That much, John's figured out.
How much string is in the world.
Who has it.
Both his choices seem wrong. In that case he's just going to have to suck it up and go. It seems like he figured that out years ago, as if there is an ultimate answer to every life and his is to suck it up and go. This time is different, but the answer is still the same: that's what he's learned to be wary of, the mistakes that become patterns that become you when you aren't thinking, just living. The books, despite being real in a place John can only wander mindlessly into, don't have the answers, or require more time (there is no more time) or more experience than he's acquired so far to comprehend.
Consider the cold and tomatoes come together
and how of course I’d love to have you.
Here, have a balloon. Have two.
Arguments with Marie aren't as comfortable as they used to be, because she's becoming someone new now and that's good and what he wanted because if he can't have what he really wants then he'll want something else for his own sake. For example, he doesn't want to be right (although he still believes he is). For example, he's glad Marie found something from life (this is angrily not quite a lie). His tongue is clumsy, he feels obvious in ways he never felt before, not really because she got closer than she had before but because you can't teach what you can't sell. When he goes back, he'll still be a child.
Reality, though, is what you can get away with. And the reality is only that he hasn't been split in two before. He's always known what he's wanted, and he's always gone after it to the best of his ability. So this is what everybody wants. But he thinks he knows what Magneto would say about that.