A thing can be lost—and you’ll think it’s forever: because who wants to lose a thing with tempered reason? If it’s gone, then let the full dramatics, the entire travesty of it knock me over with a single swing. No sense in hanging hope on the eight count, nor the eighty. Let’s have a damn funeral and be done with the world, and all at once, please.
But a twist can arise, a hermaion, a change of fate: a full lion. And devour she has already partaked of meat and mead and the fates have cast you a long lot; for once, a hope, set even against matter: an impossible thing made into magic. Tragedy with time, ironically untragic: a sparing, a kindness of chance.
Not gone, just moved, my childhood playground; reconstructed altogether and moved across town? This twist is fateful. Unreliable, but insofar, lovely and surprise, and laughter combust; a happy heart and opposite of my abandoned hope, and completely without reason aside from the reason of twisting, itself; like the strands of the double helix in us spun of their own accord; magic resides in the twisting of facts, not the facts themselves.
Thank the gods, thank the trickster. Thank all for this unearned playground indulgence. What a life of chance and tragedy. Thank the fool stumbling uphill, an unknowing savior in training-even if by mead and full belly, himself. Thank the gods for picking up my old playground and moving it to this new place of singing swallows and greenery. I can hardly believe it. If she leaves again tomorrow, then so be it. My comfort is in the twisting now, and the laughter of fate unfurled at the hand of Hermès.