Once upon a time,
it begins,
always.
Then words start to tumble out
to fill transparent shells of people,
outlines drawn by outlines, scratched or carefully devised –
we tell stories.
We bring others into being.
What else can we do?
It begins the same,
always,
even when we step into the middle
and risk scribbling on a masterpiece
or forcing endings that do not belong,
when we cannot know –
are we heroes or villains, foils or clowns? --
when our characters will not behave
[the bears bewildered find that Goldilocks has barred the
door;
the ugly duckling chases children, never trusting his reflection]
We yell some stories
to drown out other tellers,
some we whisper, some relinquish,
some we hide.
No tale is yours alone.
No tale is always true.
But we build new narratives, ever bolder.
Gentler, maybe. Kinder ones;
we let Goldilocks tell her side,
and we believe her.
We begin again,
the same, again.
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