To the Frippery

DCF 1.0

It is mental muscle memory.  Five hundred words is not a feat of Hercules.  It is the most doable thing in the world when you have a touch of Mercury on your fingertips and some stories in your heart.

Today was it.  Today was the day.  The deadline.  I am now, for the next two days, unemployed.  I am not on the payroll anymore.  My parrot is dead as a doornail.  It still doesn’t seem legit.  This whole month has been filled with sight gags and pratfalls meant to make you stop in your tracks and look twice, spit-take.  This whole month has been a joke to the girl who thought her bonds were beginning to become as much of her flesh as her own skin.  But there is no punchline, it is the truth, girl of 2010-2014.  You are free.

Mostly.  There are a few tiny last tails that need to be tied up, but I can do those when I head back to town for a funeral next weekend and return my key, a few books and whatever else crops up in another week away.  I don’t intend to make any further appearances than that save for a few friends.  I intend to cut the cord and let it heal.  Let the separation become as much a part of me as the feeling of the umbilicus siphoning off my life to feed this big, awkward baby that refused to speak but to scream and pulled at my hair.  Now, the baby will have to be coddled by another wet nurse and soon I will forget.  Soon I aim to forget.

Of course, I cannot help but think of you, Mr. Rochester, or, finally, the collection of ideas of you that have survived your absence as long as they survived your cheeky presence.  I am being bold, us peas in us pods, and I am leaving, too. Maybe this is the killing blow. Maybe this is the strike against both our shackles, mine to a place, and yours to me.  Now, it is more about the turning towards where you were, than the hope of finding you where I look.   You would be pleased because I am pleased.  I imagine this and it is so.

This is Halloween and I feel as though the spirits are starting to find me again.  They’re starting to warble and sing and I am not pretending I can hear for solace, I am hearing them.  I am finding it hard to stop hearing them.  They have been shut up and walled off, all the elves and shadows and roiling will-o-wisps that follow along the pathways.   They have not waited, but also, they have not deserted me, and kept pace and now that I have swung open the vault they swarm, with good cheer and the memory of the creature I am through them, a dancing, half-sane, half-giddy dryad.

So much can change under this moon.  So much that was needed to survive, now, in this new day, can be forgotten.

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