Life’s origami, or: The thing that can hold the most beautiful creases
Reality, master of ritual and holding a crumpled grudge… At the end of each day, reality fits inside my tight fisted soul like a very scrunched up sheet of paper. Once fed this angry ball of life, my soul, protector of all stories, clasps shut. I get tired. The magic happens. My compact sphere of content sighs with much exasperation and relief, relaxes. Thus, every crunch becomes crease, each fold untold, undone with the gentle ease of midnight breath. Dream awakes. Begins her ceremony.
No cut, trick, marking.
Patience pleats mountains, valleys,
I, dragon, fortune teller.
At peace, she folds lotus birth.
Dream, mistress of ritual and plaiting amethyst sincerity… She quietly labours, creates neat, complex universes, sheltered in the soft hollows of dark. Somewhere, in the mist of early dawn and dew drops, magic wanes. The sapphire wisdom of her lotus flower collapses into crimped, unyielding grudges full of wrinkles once again. As I wake, I wonder… Should we reverse the scene? What if reality could hold a crease as elegantly as my dream, with iridescence, truth and fragrance?