[Original] An Open Letter
Dear You,
Have you noticed the beauty in the world today? Is there a sunrise outside your window? Can you see it through the sleep caught at the corners of your eyes? If not, rub at them. Use your fingertip, your fingernail, to push out the sleep and leave you clear-eyed. The Sandman's grains may leave light scratches down your cheeks, but don't worry - they won't scar.
If you do catch the sunrise, let it fill you up. Let it fill you with color and with beginning, but also with responsibility. With balance. It is the black smoke of oil, the red fire of coal, that tempers the sky to such a perfect sheen. The same smoke and fire that eats away at the green trees we need in order to breathe, eats away at our glaciers and ice caps and melts everything to tepid, dirty bathwater.
Balance.
Once you are full of color, full of beginning, step out your door. Do no tread upon the snail in your path - let him finish his course, he wishes no harm on you. Do not scowl at the dog that barks from the yard - it is not his fault that his voice is sharper than your ears can bear. Step lightly, for the shell of the world is a fragile thing, and its yolk is molten and angry. But do not allow your way to twist in order to follow the sweet-smelling, quick-blowing wind - it will come to meet you when you are done, if the scent were true.
An old woman waits on the corner. Her nose is sharp, her cheeks drawn. She holds out a mug, shaking in her withered hand. Perhaps her eyes are too bird-bright for the trembling of her fingers. More likely than not she is more mask than mother. But who can tell what faces masks hide? Hold out a hand, make music with her tin cup. A few clattering drumbeats is all she asks - enough that her ancient feet can begin to dance.
"Thank you," she calls. "Thank you." Take her words under your wing, let them carry you up and over the rooftops. It is colder here, where the air is thin, breathe deep and slowly. Catch hold of that leaf, there - climb aboard its broad surface. The wind is high - throw your arms about the stem, there, like clinging to the great barrel of a tree, but green and twining. Below is only mist - nothing there for you, now. Up is the way that is left to you, so up we shall go.
Step off that last curl of greenery. It is quite solid, here, water vapor hardened like marble. Turn a step, turn a step, the snail has polished the floor so bright that your face reflects a thousand times. Back a step, back a step, and the hound shows the way, silent, now, his nose lowered to you in a gentleman's bow. Do not disgrace him - your dancing card is empty, I think you'll find, and he is quite without fleas.
Roundabout, roundabout, a bit of a waltz, and the woman is keeping time. Her shoes are wooden, clatter, clatter against the floor. She leads you on with jingling laughter, shows you the door in the blue.
Grasp its handle - yes, there, you see, where the edges of the sky do not quite meet. Tug at it a bit, they're tricky hinges - ah.
The staircase leads down, but that way is night. Not yet, not yet. Hold off a bit. Oh - there you go, sliding on down, and the wind rushes to meet you - I said, didn't I? And the summer day is coming to a close far too soon - someone is bound to notice.
Impatient, weren't we? Perhaps you were not so successful as you thought at scraping the sleep from your eyes.
Tomorrow you must do better.
Have you noticed the beauty in the world today? Is there a sunrise outside your window? Can you see it through the sleep caught at the corners of your eyes? If not, rub at them. Use your fingertip, your fingernail, to push out the sleep and leave you clear-eyed. The Sandman's grains may leave light scratches down your cheeks, but don't worry - they won't scar.
If you do catch the sunrise, let it fill you up. Let it fill you with color and with beginning, but also with responsibility. With balance. It is the black smoke of oil, the red fire of coal, that tempers the sky to such a perfect sheen. The same smoke and fire that eats away at the green trees we need in order to breathe, eats away at our glaciers and ice caps and melts everything to tepid, dirty bathwater.
Balance.
Once you are full of color, full of beginning, step out your door. Do no tread upon the snail in your path - let him finish his course, he wishes no harm on you. Do not scowl at the dog that barks from the yard - it is not his fault that his voice is sharper than your ears can bear. Step lightly, for the shell of the world is a fragile thing, and its yolk is molten and angry. But do not allow your way to twist in order to follow the sweet-smelling, quick-blowing wind - it will come to meet you when you are done, if the scent were true.
An old woman waits on the corner. Her nose is sharp, her cheeks drawn. She holds out a mug, shaking in her withered hand. Perhaps her eyes are too bird-bright for the trembling of her fingers. More likely than not she is more mask than mother. But who can tell what faces masks hide? Hold out a hand, make music with her tin cup. A few clattering drumbeats is all she asks - enough that her ancient feet can begin to dance.
"Thank you," she calls. "Thank you." Take her words under your wing, let them carry you up and over the rooftops. It is colder here, where the air is thin, breathe deep and slowly. Catch hold of that leaf, there - climb aboard its broad surface. The wind is high - throw your arms about the stem, there, like clinging to the great barrel of a tree, but green and twining. Below is only mist - nothing there for you, now. Up is the way that is left to you, so up we shall go.
Step off that last curl of greenery. It is quite solid, here, water vapor hardened like marble. Turn a step, turn a step, the snail has polished the floor so bright that your face reflects a thousand times. Back a step, back a step, and the hound shows the way, silent, now, his nose lowered to you in a gentleman's bow. Do not disgrace him - your dancing card is empty, I think you'll find, and he is quite without fleas.
Roundabout, roundabout, a bit of a waltz, and the woman is keeping time. Her shoes are wooden, clatter, clatter against the floor. She leads you on with jingling laughter, shows you the door in the blue.
Grasp its handle - yes, there, you see, where the edges of the sky do not quite meet. Tug at it a bit, they're tricky hinges - ah.
The staircase leads down, but that way is night. Not yet, not yet. Hold off a bit. Oh - there you go, sliding on down, and the wind rushes to meet you - I said, didn't I? And the summer day is coming to a close far too soon - someone is bound to notice.
Impatient, weren't we? Perhaps you were not so successful as you thought at scraping the sleep from your eyes.
Tomorrow you must do better.