Split Ends

I have it all, it is me. A sword which I may not wield, a hat that doesn’t fit. Requirement and need, while I wait. Who can hold the sword Calibre, Sphinx speaks to herself in a mirror. The threads must cut and be parted asunder, like the prow of a sharp ship parts the waters, or a bicycle running over a cake. Cut the threads, sever the narrative. Spinning step, sword in hand, feet moving round.

She Sphinx sees something that she cannot see. Trips on something that is not there.

I must be getting warm, she thinks. If I cannot see it and it is not there, then I shall close my eyes and stand still. It will discover me.

Darkness, quiet, stillness, no breathing,

She sphinx becomes of stone. Then came sideways from a split in space, a rabbit speaking in an unknown language, riding a lion.

The Sphinx opens one eye, Are you the Asura foretold, young rabbit?

I am.

 Very enigmatic I’m sure, says she Sphinx, Can you help us change to more favourable outcomes?

 I can, says the rabbit, sitting back on its haunches. It proceeded to clean its ears, drawing them repeatedly through its paws.

How shall we begin?

Wait till I have finished cleaning my ears.

Sorry, oh wise one. Says the Sphinx

Call me by my name, which is Rosalind, said the Rabbit.

The rabbit finished cleaning their ears.

Can we begin Rosalind? Asked the Sphinx

Let us, said the Rabbit, To begin I shall call all the puissant characters who guard the split ends of the Threads of History as they are woven. We shall change the pattern of the tapestry of the future into an active motion. These are then the weavers of history, and they are legion, I shall call them forth now. Let’s hope they are not too busy.

Then the Rabbit became two dimensional and lay on the floor like a drawing and spoke in the language of those beings who reside in another place.

Then came forwards, in legion, the Thread Barers, holding the ends of the threads, each one to their own.  The weavers, like silhouettes, which, when turned sideways, disappeared, as if they were paper. As they came, they made a dance which wove the threads into the tapestry continuous, it is known.

The Rabbit took the sword Calibre from the Sphinx and, slashing wildly, swept the threads of history in twain, leaving the split ends dancing, unguided, in the breeze. The legion of Thread keepers ran about, jumping in the air to catch the ends of the wafting threads. Slowly, one by one, the split ends were brought under control once more.

Then the rabbit choreographed a new dance and the keepers moved in the new dance and the Tapestry became a new design unseen in all of time. Then the keepers retreated through the break into that other place.

Oauh! thought the Sphinx, I wonder what Tapestry I have made. Will it be of good quality? After all is said, change is not always, in and of itself, a guaranteed improvement. It is perhaps more efficient to take a system, jettison the weak points and strengthen the strengths whilst innovating the hard slow way. The modern notion, moving fast and breaking things, is asinine in the extreme, unless, of course, you are a two-year-old child.

Its Ok, said the Rabbit, I have not destroyed the very threads, that chaos would ensue, and bitter outcomes. But no, I am a well versed and practiced choreographer. The dance that I have given the Thread Barers is rooted in the timeless works of the eternal dance, which in turn are danced upon the shoulders of giants.

With that the Rosalind the Rabbit turned sideways and was not seen again.