A People Tale

I have a tendency for the dramatic -- to say the least. When I am happy; I am very very happy and when I am sad I am almost disconsolate. I also tend to look at my life as some sort of fairytale, or story that has suddenly built to a climax. The prince is at the door and he comes bearing gifts that touch me to the very core of my being.

So now, in all the stories I know, it is time for some tension, for some unknown thing to suddenly throw a cloud over all this unimaginable beauty and turn Camelot into a place where storm clouds gather and lightning crashes and either I die, or the prince disappears into the charms of some evil magician. Either of those things seems as bad as the other.

I tremble in the knowledge that it is almost time for me to put on my Joan of Arc armor and set off to solve these problem that don't even exist yet! There is not even a harbinger of these things in the sweet air that surrounds me from the time I open my eyes in the morning until I close them at night. And even in slumber, in those hours when morpheus comes to taunt some people, I dream of dancing orcas and smiling sea turtles with the prince behind me weaving tales of joy and possibilities.

No child lives a sweeter, or more perfect life and yet I see the storm clouds gathering in my peripheral vision and ask myself why?

It is actually a simple answer, one I hate to admit. In the past the jester always wore a mask, a dark mime whose actions were never quite what they seemed and I was always sitting there, smiling up at him when the mask fell and the grim reality of his deceit fell on me like some meteor flashing from the sky to crush the joy and trust and beauty from my bones, leaving me flat and empty like an orange peel whose sweet juice and flesh has been consumed.

But I am older now. Wiser I think and it is time to put this all behind me.

If I die tomorrow I only mourn the tears of those who might miss me and if the prince is turned into a vase of stunning lapis lazuli, then I will simply spend the rest of my life searching for the charm to set him free. I can see it now, a room filled with lovely vases: each one holding the essence of some charmed creature: each one as stunning in its own way as all the others, but I shall recognize the prince because when I gaze into his center I will see my face.

And then I will simply fill him up and drink from that vessel, knowing that whatever is good and pure, sweet and whole will become part of me forever more. And one day, if I learn the correct words, find the right magic, sing the right songs, he will emerge from me whole and perfect once more and those parts of us will face eternity with the confidence I find so lacking in myself here and now.