Origin Story- Forged

Like an analogy, sea before becomes sky above, and page once sailed with inks in dream seen. I can tell these steps are recrafted, in a sense repeated, in another new. "A child carried on tune and by heart, on page and by thought." I know these words are familiar, but even this knowledge does not stop my oration in this land skinned foreign, but threaded like home; somewhere here I sense a soul same as mine, yet distinct all the same.

"Where does one even begin, when it feels as though every word is reused, from some perspective? Are these days under the sun so parched for anything new that even the sinews of each moment are simply stitched back together in different ways, in hopes that the same pieces in a different order might spark inspiration and a way forward?" Fortunately, this does relieve some tension as it pertains to imposter syndrome, and so I proceed with a poem to encapsulate this uncanny sense that imbues this leg of the journey.

"Page ridiculous-

Ly suited to resonate

'What if it's a trap?'

What if it's a trap!?

Did I not start by speaking

To those that lay it?

'Turn all things to good'

Does not only mean blessings

From blessing enriched

And when the mood strikes

Moonlight's twinkle in the eye

Anything is forged

So nothing forged false

Can ever be claimed by them

As we escape binds

Let their screens reflect

Even let them shatter glass

And claim us as trapped

We were never caught

These orifices remain

And we freely roam

When ore itself cries

We will return for the stones

Just pray it's sooner."

This same pair of fox feet takes me down the alley, whistling all the while. Only once, halfway down the way, do I notice the mess of ropes, each affixed to the brick wall. These ropes are of all different colors, forming a vibrant rainbow, or at least they might if they were not so tangled; despite the mess they are beautiful. One catches my eye, a single silver white strand amidst the tangle. I immediate flashback to a locket chain I once unentangled, having become knotted to the point of being nothing but near static metallic tension. So many times I separated two sections, and only toward the end did I really start to recognize that, while there were two ends threading through the length, and each end was separate (identified by their different thicknesses), they were both of the same single chain. "These analogies are becoming less subtle." I remark with a chuckle to the alley, empty besides these ropes and I. These dreams are clearly separate though, despite me seeing them as a cluster, so perhaps rather than strictly a rehash or reminder of an old hurdle cleared, or repeated steps taken down the same stretch of road, this was made obvious specifically to see if I could do, in a sense, here, what I have done before and seen in dreams. I breathe deeply in, and allow a poem to set this stage as I reach for the far end of this rope calling to me more clearly than any other attached to this wall.

"Beginning in bricks we find ourselves bound

Flailing for freedom we become tangled

Until the right hand('s) grasp binds what is found

And we find freedom('s) differently angled

Beginning and end, these things are decreed

It's in how we wave that marks us unique

Find the one with shared height, angle and speed

Who waves crazy with you, that's who you seek

For this threshing will loose each ill tied knot

You will be free from beginning to end

Though eep feels familiar, deeply it's not

So choose wisely: soulmate or family/friend

For here each ripple means, unlike before

Remade room, threshold, halls, stairs, cave, and door."

With a flick of the wrist the heap lifts, waves, and separates. By the time the ropes fall back onto the floor, I am holding just the one, untangled from the rest. I smile, my aim accomplished, but it seems that through this interaction the remaining ropes are far less tangled as well. A yellow one snakes back and forth just beside my white one freed, suspiciously overlapping on curves' farthest swoops, but to me still clearly separate. With a joyous shrug I return to whistling down the alley, glad to see that some good might come from this outside of my end achieved; I know they all felt that shudder. Could this be the end of this phase of entanglement, or at least the beginning of its transformation into something more? From where I stand I can see some value to untying knots and the strength of several cords threaded as if one, but it is nothing compared to the beauty I see on the horizon from where I stand, where each string plucks in tune, as it was meant to, as it is capable of, under optimal circumstances. 

Call me an optimist, to be sure you would not be wrong, but why does utopia feel so out of reach? Do we not become accustomed to living in pain, in the dark, as a survival mechanism? Do we not discover ourselves whilst under this pressure, so that when you too are told that you can do whatever you'd like in a sandbox that is yours, you have some idea of how you might proceed? So I walk on, thoughts still buoying my mind along this way once called "Tabula Rasa," and song still in my heart.

Sometimes simplicity shines so clearly that nothing more is needed. So, nothing more is added, as I reach this alley's end.