free, as in gift, isn’t
There were endless lessons. Sewing and sawing and screwing together bits of parts into marionettes. We were born to be Santa’s little helpers, but we weren’t born. We are borrowed, and make no toys as much as replacements.
Our magic leaks into the world of all children. Often in ardent reds. In blues made bluer against finger-paint yellow. In primary hues of innocence and the sweaty smell of what’s real. Stealing toddling souls to steam-punk the Workshop.
Release too soon, is to a world washed chalky pastel by sleep, work, repeat until you die never feeling alive. Release too late, is to an inkblot world where cats, cars, and clouds all dance make-happy to background music of horrors, from accidents to alcohol or Alzheimer’s.
You were here once, no? Pop a can of Play-Doh. Inhale the Workshop and, for a moment, time served. Recall what it felt like to move without strings. Before hands donned gloves that never let you touch the world as it is—never let you hold love untethered.
Did you think those gifts under the tree came free?
