Look, you are the forest, and the owl that hoots in the bowers. You are the crickets that shine, and the stars that sing. You are the wee one on the path to Grandma's, skipping through the dark, eyes in the back of her head. You are Grandma's house and the basket of muffins, which, we'd assume, should reassure. You’re the chill of apprehension, and arm hairs that bristle.
And of course, you are also the fanged monster in grandma’s nightie, who waits in the bed with a long stream of drool. You are unbelievable rage, to match the wee one's innocence; perhaps, shall we say, the other side of the coin.
You are every dot of this scenario, except one...
I am the oz who works these props, this plot. I keep the secrets; withhold suspense, so that when the wolf springs from Grandma's sheets, you scream as though you never knew.
I'm the stern teacher, the Buddha who hijacks your forest, digests the old lady, and beckons you nightly.
Why do you turn away whenever I show my face?
Each night I set out a different scenario for you. Look, I say, you could be the forest and all the things in it, whatever pleases you: owls, trees, crickets, stars. You could be a wise old woman, or a wolf suckling her cubs. Or a child even, since you seem to adore her. And you could walk down the path to where I will be waiting, to where there is no fear, at the center of yourself.
You pretend you don't hear me, choose the nightmare every time.
What am I to do?
Go ahead, then. Practice your misery. You've earned it.
