“We carry our weight with us.”
Members of diet clubs may wish to say “Duh!” at this point, but that’s not what I’m going for here.
That Weight idea is a damnable cliché that follows me and haunts me, no matter where, when and how I go.
I’ve always liked the idea that everyone’s time in the universe is like a journey. At least, that was how it was for me after I stole the TARDIS. My life stopped being just a ‘life’, it became an adventure, a thing to actually enjoy.
Everyone’s journey shares the same things; obstacles, elation, let-downs, repercussions, flashbacks and all those glorious Saturday afternoons where Time itself seems to stop.
(Which I have nothing to do with, I promise. Most of the time.)
All journeys are different and progress is a variety of ways. All differ in eventfulness and duration as well. Some, sadly, can last a day; others seem almost too stubborn to finish.
I easily fit into that latter category.
There has always been one major problem with my journey.
Our little party trick of light, sound and suddenly some new face to get acquainted with.
Twelve times now, I have found myself on what you might call the ‘Home Stretch’, the ‘Last Path’. Yet no ending ever reveals itself fully. My narrative drops a bookmark or a footnote, and I continue, on new feet and through new eyes.
But with new, fresh memories?
I can only wish for such luck.
We all carry weight. Our lies, our betrayal, in extreme cases, our murders stack one by one like some chained up Dicken’s ghost. These, we carry with us, as the journey goes on. Because it always has, must, and shall.
But I am the only one in all of creation who carries my own past, along with the past of twelve others.
It sounds like a luggage-boy’s worst nightmare, although if a hotel bellhop ever tried to complain at me, I’d drop him into the event horizon of a collapsing galaxy.
Beautiful to watch though.
All twelve of my…predecessors all did a wide array of things. Eight and Nine between them have quite a lot of war troubles to answer for, as one example.
Overall, I try my best to forget them all. I’ve tried wallowing in self-pity around the TARDIS, but only then does the weight of a millennium alive hurt even more. People always ask me why I can never stay still or settle down.
Sometimes, it is the delight of travelling and adventures.
Otherwise, it’s everything I’ve been running from since death One.
I don’t even think of the companions any more. I think, by now, it’s about thirty of them in total. I’ll never stop and count them though. Every dead man’s path is scattered with them, and I’ve no desire to revisit them.
Twelve dead men and I, all living inside one head. With the rest of the universe trying to constantly butt in and moan about their wars, invasions or tax returns.
I am so very tired now.
TimeLess has provided the most recent, and needed, distraction. Maybe he’ll just wind up like another companion, but I enjoy his bizarre company.
Maybe he’ll last until man Fourteen, whence I can offload all my problems onto him. Harsh? Not when twelve men have done it to me.
Although, will there even be a fourteenth man?
My journey continues, for now.
In Brighton, of all places.