What is unique is rare. What is rare is scarce. What is scarce must be protected.
At what cost?
At all costs.
At the cost of others?
Of course. It is rare.
But I have two eyes, and a mouth, and a nose. Our suns all seem to rise in the east and set in the west. Surely that’s not so rare!
But you have a name. And a story, and a personality. It is your unique story.
Yes, and so does everyone else! Isn’t it wonderful! So many stories to hear!
BUT YOURS IS UNIQUE
And thus, rare?
YES
Does it matter?
YES IT DOES
Is that why you’re always loudly yelling at and protecting me?
Yup yup! Now you get it. Finally.
…What if I can stretch it?
Stretch your story?
Yeah! Like saltwater taffy- it pulls slowly then melts and coats the fingers of everything it touches? Or! Or! What if it can do tricks?
Or bend it backwards- where everything about it is in negative colors of what it was a moment ago? The people I know all enunciate their names backwards- and those who have curly hair, it turns straight. The straight haired folks go bald…and those who are bald- it springs back all beautifully brambled?
What if this story of mine can expand to the limited size of the entire universe! just to shrink it down past the size of a quark?
No, bu-
WHAT IF!! Oooh! What if! What if, like a sweater sleeve, it can be pulled inward on itself and pulled out the other end: new pattern side-up?
No, but you don’t underst-
What if today I keep it as is- and tomorrow- just for tomorrow (maybe)- I let it be all nooodly.
But people will think you’re lying! You don’t want to be know as dishonest- do you? Or…crazy.., insane…?
Perhaps. Perhaps there’s a way to be honest in all the stories! Yes, yes. I think that’s possible. And also, I don’t know if it matters as much. At least, not as much at the story I told myself a few minutes ago. Perhaps others won’t believe me anyways regardless of what story I tell. Even if I spend a whole age telling and retelling it.
There’s a little voice somewhere inside me that lets me know if it feels honest to me, and I think that feeling feels like liquid honey! (Just not as sticky, more like the viscous smoke of liquid nitrogen- where it smells sweet like honey, and tastes like stars).
BUT I’M THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD
You’re not a very fun one though, are you? What are you so angry about?
BECAUSE. There can only be ONE story!…..Right?….Can’t there? I admit … those loops and hoops and whirls and twirls you mentioned did sound fun. But. No. No. It’s not right. That’s not the right story. That can’t be the story. It’s just not it. YOU SAID IT YOURSELF. IM JUST TRYING TO PROTECT YOU.
Oh. Well, if I twist my story- then perhaps it can be twisted so that you can take a break from all this protecting! You sound tired from all this protecting. Why don’t you take a break. How about this, why don’t you sit here next to me. I’ll put on the kettle and you can tell me your story.
Really?
Yes! Of course, I’d love to hear it.
And tomorrow…(do you think I could tell it again)?
In whichever way which way you want.