once upon a time

There was no way to describe what happened next. Neither of them had any idea before that moment, and it would have been hard to pinpoint the exact spot where the world rearranged itself and sat there waiting for them to wake up into it. All that can be said is that something wonderful happened, and when it was done being surprising it left them with sparkly, new and pleasantly upside-down stomachs, and the morning gradually crept up on them as the change did, so by the time they heard the birdsong and saw each other again in the half-light, they were completely and utterly swept away, breathless, swimming and not missing the air.

sesquicentennials and other squid

You will find meaning in things when I am gone
And so I'm not worried about leaving.
And because I'm not worried, I don't have to leave anymore.

Pop songs being true:
Black and Gold "Cause if you're not really there, then the stars don't even matter, and I'm filled to the brim with fear, that it's all just a bunch of matter... If you're not really there, then I don't want to be either, I want to be next to you"

Love song "I'm not gonna write you a love song, because you asked for one, because you need one... I'm gonna need a better reason to write you a love song"

I'm actually so impressed with Sara Bareilles, here is another one:
Fairytale "I'm not waiting for the next best thing"

"Who says I can't be free, from all of the things that I used to be, rewrite my history, who says I can't be free?"

Something with wings

Halloo in the frosty silence, halloo in the echoing night.
The smallest pieces of the globe are glowing shards in our hearts
The myriad reflections of a lost myth
Beyond the shadow of smoke, beyond faith,
Formless hope in the wellspring
What is the question reverberating against the walls?
A fairytale, is it made of more than glass?
Can it be bigger than the fine, fragile bird skeleton we clutch at with clumsy fingertips?
What will make it live and sing within the cages of our breasts?

Come, listen to a story...

I've been thinking about fairytales, because of this guy. I've been thinking about being the wide-eyed child, the tumbling fool who wears his heart on his sleeve and carries his sentimentality as proudly as his old violin. The story is his, a pure expression of his adventurous spirit and good humor.

I was thinking about being the enchantress, the crone sometimes, sometimes the woman in the red dress, every ripple of movement around her soaked in mystery and seduction. She sees potential, and sets it on fire, drives the hesitant into becoming a hero, sets the challenges and makes the requirements, and with relish she plays the villain. My tale belongs to her, my stage manager, who gets things moving backstage, turns on the lights and whispers all the well-memorized cues to herself. She is in love with only the story, the characters as they will come to be.

I've been dwelling on being the reader, whose secret sorrow is the wonderful book she holds in her hands, the barrier between the worlds. She feels the bookcover in her hand, not heavy but significant, she counts the pages between her and the moment when they run dry, her currency the tears shed over beautiful things all too brief. It is for her, this story, and she can love it more deeply than anyone else could guess. She knows that the price of reading is to arrive at the endpages and be cut off from countless worlds as she shuts the cover, as she must. And still she must read, risk that loss, seek out her own suffering in exchange for the golden ball, a pair of shoes, the talking fish and a night at the ball. These things are tiny rivulets that run down into deeper, wilder undercurrents of myth. In the mutable void of story, she is cradled, she is home, for a while. Come deeper into the forest, child. Come, listen to a story...

I am considering playing a part, playing every part, but only if I let myself forget that I am the author. And that is the best game of all.