Lances are a fool's weapon
They have only one, awkward point, one direction by which they may vanquish. One's whole body must be turned toward it, into it, taking the force of the lance into you as you ram into whatever thing you hope to triumph over. A shield splinters, flesh rends, and blood anoints the lance as it gathers cheers like a stick collects cobweb.
In a world full of wolves one must needs become a hedgehog - to do otherwise invites paranoia, quick-turning and doubt. But for the glorious shudder of victory that hums through the lancer, no joy can be found upon the tourney-grounds. To the rider, they are a waste, but to the hedgehog, it is a quilt, a larder and a playground. The difference is one of rhythms - one's circadian spares others as much as it spares oneself.
My favourite colour as a child was yellow, which never looked very good on paper that wasn't black or some other darker shade. But it was my favourite nevertheless, and much to my teachers' frustration, my drawings would always make them squint. Naturally, the drawings were never quite the best, especially when the yellow was making them near-impossible to see. But, there were times for me when, through yellow, I was able to express something that only made sense to me in that colour, some raw flame that at once floated on the page, while boring through it to some other, brighter world.
"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens." // "I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things."
