but we’re not the same
Once and always there were two and more frenemies and loverhaters walking and running and sleeping in a labyrinth, or maybe it was a planet in a labyrinth, or a planet decorated with lots of them. It doesn’t matter.
The travelers names were Frodo and Sam and Melusina and Gulliver and Medusa, Prometheus and Maria, and Luke Skywalker, and billions and billions of others. They were all the names and none. All the faces and none.
They all had the same destination, even the ones who wanted to fail or ensure that others did, but none of them trusted each other. They’d all given each other so many reasons not to.
Some would try and say, “I can see the bottom from here!” or the meaning, or the answers. The other would say “I don’t believe you.” They were always both and all a little bit right and wrong, and a lot bit scared. The lie is in the middle of belief and believe, and they don’t know they are one.
When they did trust each other enough, they would find that the magic rope came undone and returned to their hands, or the locked door opened, or the dragon returned to peaceful slumber, or the spell was broken. The spell was cast by fear. Their fear was that they were not one and could never trust each other.
They all loved these times of belief and trust best of all. They made sure they had a thousand sounds and moving images and stories so they could connect with them somehow, especially when they missed them so much they wanted to cry or die or die of crying or never cry again.
This is a frustrating story. It feels sad and confusing to us. We’ve sent magicians and ambassadors for millennia. They all drink the water and breathe the air. Soon they forget too. By now, pretty much all of them are our former ambassadors. Once in awhile they remember. They write more stories and songs. They draw more pictures.
We read and sing and gaze at it all.
