Fairy Tale

Once upon a castle, there was a time. The time is now. The place is here.

In the castle lived a family of princes and paupers, ogres and wizards, early mornings and wild knights.

And there was a Lord of the manor, the cock of the walk so-to-speak, who dealt in fantasy and debauchery, building things and tearing them down. No one was quite sure how he ascended to the throne; it seemed like it had always been that way. There was something peculiar about his perceived benevolence; somewhere lurking in the background was a Machiavellian instinct (or desire) that stole it away as soon as it gave.

And there was a princess, having the heart and soul of twenty fair maidens, who visited from afar, stopping for a moment on her travels, bringing warmth and joy, intelligence and insight. In her carpetbaggage were well-worn books, several pounds of curiosity, and, deep down, locked away in a secret vault, a feeling of inadequacy. You see, in the labyrinthine folds of knowledge, the expanding file folder in the recesses of her baggage, the princess lacked any proof of her abilities. So while others presented symbols of knowledge stamped onto parchment, she had to open her bag, show the books, show the lessons learned, demonstrate her curiosity.

[and, in the darkness, when no one was looking, she would spread her wings and fly...]

When the princess met the Lord of the manor, she immediately did not fall in love. Nor did he. This is not a love story. But one warm Fall day, when the turning of the leaves was frozen in time by hopeful optimism, the castle-dwellers took a long mental journey, in and out of space and time, and when they came back, the Lord and the princess were nowhere to be found.

Hours later, of course, there was a close up of them smoking a cigarette accompanied by a sultry sax solo.

At this point in the tale, I should point out that your humble narrator does not play a role in this story aside from outside observer. Granted, observing does constitute interaction (what's the sound of one hand clapping? what's the story without the teller?), affecting the outcome, but for out purposes, the effect is negligible.

What seemed like a chance encounter in the hallucinogenic haze turned into something more conscious and habitual. Over time, the princess flew less and less, exchanging freedom for stability and losing part of her soul in the process.

What is happiness? And who are we to interrupt what seems to be a convenient arrangement?

Happiness is being loved for all the qualities that you yourself love about you.

And unhappiness is being loved for only your most superficial qualities and being paraded around for those qualities.

[Everyone wants to be a little punk rock. And if they can't be it, they can at least buy it.]

So it seems that the fairy tale is coming to an end. And in the disintegration, I think I've made a new friend. [Not "Facebook friend" but real friend.] But maybe a "Moment friend". We may share a moment and help each other through this time and then drift apart, knowing that we'll always have Paris.