Two Sisters Born in Defiance Only to Die in Acceptance

Two Sisters Born in Defiance Only to Die in Acceptance

Harken those that judgement pluck and plume to thame the illustrious cry of modern golden-aged folios river staged. Humble words risen inspired by a tiny blue globe eloquently swirling inked in lives lost but counted as gained. Come! Listen to the mighty roar of the amphitheater we call life. 

Please heed and pay homage to a Magical Tale told by a fool fouled by jesters in common occurrences of our imagined contemporary world of convenience.

Forget your seat, push your way front and center, and make certain you are a groundling yourself not to miss but to witness another averted tragedy in its truest form. 

The who, what, and where is so long, long ago nobody can remember the why. Not even Dionysus, who nowadays is never-woke never- more. 

For some of us, retro-thinking is not a long-forgotten lost art but merely the yearning of a sentimental heart. Entreat me a moment of your time when fond memories meant friends, family and occasions together. Humour me a lowly but timely-supplicant of virtues or perhaps allow me my own eulogy of a heretical keening bard, tis benevolence in the eye of the beholder? 

Entwine your ears and minds on a magic-carpet ride to lands once remembered and those near and dear oh-so-familiar and oh-so-quaint villages by resurrected rivers of broken dreams.

Like the ones we grew up in getting lost and found in forgotten memoirs and the misadventures of storybooks, nestled at the foot of the well-versed Knockabout Mountain range. This is where many aficionados reside a little bit higher in the muck than the rest begging “please sir, may I have some more” we the poor slobs fighting for our meager ration to hoard in squalor. 

I blossomed like a cocooned Egyptian mummy foretelling and waiting to rise and take my rightful place amidst the rolling hills and lush, unwatered greenery. But I'm still wallowing, having learned comfortable complacency; I do alright in my unencumbered ignorance. 

Shall we begin, then?

Once upon a time, I was strolling through a dark and dreary shaded Glen on the ides of March in a forest thicket of fallen Corinthian trees. I wasn't startled at all by the eerie snapping of saplings by older boughs. Enveloping me like strong arms in this dark Darwinian abyss. A naturally manmade culling to make sure only the strongest branches can conquer and survive. The anesthesia of anxiety that tolerably numbs me to danger was starting to wear off.

When a very, very old wise woman materialized from the bowls of this now foreboding forest of bygone military conquest and long gone glory days.  She screwed those wrinkled eyes unto my vulnerable direction, making my stomach go thump while making me afraid to look in her eyes. She had, you know, the kind that can see right through to the back of your head making my hairs on my neck stand on end. She cast her inflamed gaze upon me like two hot iron skillets. Her blazing eyes lighting a fire under my normally apathetic demeanor, singing my nature like sizzling bacon. 

Taking her cue, she moved in like a colosseum lion , curling her nose and squinting at me like only a cat can. Stalking me silently beseeching the lost essence of my being. Her eyes a blowtorch on a mouse, making me flinch as my stomach rumbles a mystical ballet of somersaults. All the while an owl hooted in disdainful glee. 

Her ocular trance completely mesmerized me like a minoan mosaic. A pastel colored canopy of ancient paintings and old-foliage made my reality start to spin in her maelstrom of space and time. Suddenly the old Crone struck as if she were an untamed shriveled shrew.

The outstretched, bony, bewitched finger struck right in the middle of my forehead. 

She chortled in Falstaffs pplong dead voice and croaked an oath that swore me to silence or a curse “of the likes” I couldn't even imagine would befall me. Poppycock! I silently justified “Of the Likes” how absurd. I dare not take this secret to my grave and not share in the telling with a kindred soul. Of the what, and the how, to find the where bony old witches reside. Hiding hoards of treasured story-maps buried in deep, intimate recesses guarded, oh so well, by gnashing Kraken.

Best left to unknown knaves or the brazzen brave to regurgitate catacombs of truth. I am not by nature a gossip, or have I been known as a squealer. I pride myself in the illusion I will die with a clear concise conscience. Surreptitiously, I prefer to live and play with my own personal grace and not that of another. 

Here I share this most engaging and quite intriguing saga, her curse be damned; perhaps she's blind by now. But for the grace of God, go I, having eluded a clear-eyed condemnation, yet once again.

And so it goes, there lived two young sisters like twins so beautiful that only their wickedness could match their beauty. The older one, who really was the one who began this story in the first place. Bestowed by an impetuous disposition her pagan name of Eris aptly suited her. Once you have met her you will find her more beguiling than the misspelled flower named after her. She was re-imagined soon after by an unscrupulous and yet most enchanting identical younger sister, Discordia.

Eris, known for her stubbornness and for no apparent reason never agreeing to anything, thought chaos was cool. Her mother would throw her hands up as if to Nyx Eris and yell, "Why can't you be more like your sister  Discordia.'' Who was frequently mistaken for a kind heart and gentle spirit. Not so surprising in retrospect; as she was prone to be internally coiled like a serpent. Ready to instantly sink her fangs so deep, so casually, you would hardly notice. Of course, by then it was too late for any redemption of antivenom. 

Insidious, really was how she would charm her next victim. Simultaneously hidden beneath her shallow and calm classy imperial demeanor, only to peel back a jagged smile; a stalking wolf would be jealous of. She-Wolf espousing rigid order on her hunt only for the fun of dominating another. Like all bullies trying to be Caesar, they end up instigating chaos redundantly like the vintage Eris. 

Eventually, her greedy conquests got the better of her and she grew old. Declining regrettably ignominiously to the few who contradicted for argument's sake. Still you may ponder on, how many of us are reluctantly happy most of the time, but that would be a misnomer. Still, ultimately, it led to her untimely but inevitable demise. But I digress; that is another tale of two brothers rather than two sisters recounted in another far-away Magical Realm.

It could be said that any of us, not as gifted or beautiful as the simmering imminent Discordia. Must enquire within ourselves how unconditionally and unconsciously trapped by pride we really are. Wrongfully boasting we had the ability to see right through her graceful statuesque facade that belied a concrete center. She lived day to day, like us today, minutes ticking into seconds a precariously veritable bottled-up Mount Vesuvius. Ready to blow our tops and rain a histrionic acid onto any unaware bystander.

She felt the weight of her personal history like many of us do, but unlike her thought of origin story. We prefer remakes or redos, or if you're lucky enough and have strayed too far from Vogue's current source, you can win a makeover. My sore eyes look but often miss seeing the original classical form. I nearly lost my life once drowning in facsimiles, each bellowing its originality and importance, pouring down like a biblical flood, foaming a whirlpool of self-proclaimed (made just for me) uniqueness in at least space and time. I still flounder and gulp air, reeling superfluously as they spin by me in a blur, transforming my thoughts into ruminations of the next podcast of products to be bought, sold, or traded. Ultimately, I end up spending a majority of my time destitute and bewildered.

Finally, I had enough. That bony old bewitched finger knew the what, where, when, and why, but how? I managed to mumble the how, but I still don't know how. Time stood still in those wrinkled old eyes that saw not by sight but felt by knowing. She gazed down at me with her cataracts, a grand canyon etched in stone, brick-and-mortar begrudging time. 

This mystical bruja focused on me unceremoniously. Her ancient orbs of light formed a laser of ethereal vapor and timelessness. Forcing myself to try and clear my eyes through this hellish mental fog, I realized an unrecognized but overwhelming spirituality exuding from her. A self-realized goddess burning an eleventh hour commandment into my cerebellum like a pagan sacrificial offering. From her inextricable moral mountain contriving to change my hearing “of the way” or topple me from a repetitive ignoble climb to the top. 

She spoke to me in a voice that echoed the human condition for time immemorial but now rotated and irritated, sounding of cold voices re-living stataticco chattering but now only hearing weed-whackers never silenced by strife. Truth be told, honored and remembered by callous infinite eternal fields of crosses still calling awaken, awaken over and over. She stammered, conjured, and summoned till her cheeks turned red, then blue, and finally to a virginal white death-mask all in the name of the hero that resides within us all. Shrieking the shrill cry of a thousand sirens in an immaculate primal “Call to Action” for the soul purpose of easing individual boulders of burden for a downhill battle of change.

In the stillness of the night, the world is bathed in silver. My favorite pastime is to pinpoint the exact moment I call the “tween of night and day.” The instant glimpse of when moonlight and memory blend and loom, often a tiny imperceptible click, can be heard if you listen hard enough and don't blink. My thoughts drifted across the face-of-the-moon like an unrequited smoldering cloud. I was determined with a selfish angst attempting to out-stare her non-judgemental gaze. She only nods, changing from smirks to smiles, then waning back then forth again in a cycle of mindful mirrors, beaconing all of us to remember our shared journey.

Eris often found herself consumed by a deep sense of unease and restlessness. Regularly like an atomic clock waking in a cold sweat. Dreaming of a plot to sneak in with a pre-emptive strike to assassinate her way into her sister's happiness like a Trojan horse.

One fateful evening, as she sat by the flickering flames of her hearth, a mysterious figure appeared before her in white robes. She first felt, rather than noticed his natural charisma sprinkled with a philosophical flare. She couldn't help herself astutely notice the way he carried himself; the faint smell of hemlock emanating like a stubborn stain of truth. History will never wash this tragic stain from his golden robe.

Clad in a toga, his silhouette painted a rather sad stoic form against a brilliant star-studded sky. He surprisingly spoke with soft compassion in a hushed spartan tone. She felt like it was her birthday, but instead of being born into chaos, she felt the rebirth of synchronicity for the first time. The seemingly stern and pious old man made an offering to Eris, a foretold grail wrapped in a serene regenerative light. "Embrace the burn of acceptance, for it is a righteous burn. Nevertheless, still a deep burn," the erect, barely discernible figure whispered before vanishing into the shadows.

Intrigued and somewhat fearful of this very odd-esoteric nobleman and his impermanent gift left in front of her. Eris couldn't contain herself any longer, and tentatively  instinctively with mindfulness she unwrapped the gift as it dematerialized before her eyes. She savored the moment, which she normally was disinclined to do. Summoning great comport, she slowly revealed an enticing internal glow to an amulet of truth. Steadfastly propped and adorned with an intricate crown of symbols seemingly incomprehensible. 

She felt an overwhelming desire to know so intently that it seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. A flash of insight rushed through her as she touched the cool metal, timidly at first. After a while, she found herself actually enjoying the rush of a warm epiphany as it flooded her being; like hot, fresh oven-baked bread. At that instant, a surge of courage and determination unlike anything she had experienced ripped directly into her open and receptive heart. She watched in wonder and awe as the electrical energy rose up incandescently lighting and fully encompassing her mind-body and spirit. 

From that moment on, Eris embarked on a journey of self-discovery and inner transformation. The burn of acceptance, though painful at times, became a source of strength and resilience. Guiding her through moments of doubt and uncertainty through each passing day She learned to embrace her fears as well as her fantasies, learning to acknowledge both and let them go in equanimity. Her emotions only remembered faintly in a oil lamp's wisps of smoke blown into the far winds of history's memories. To be wished and hoped for in a transmuted future for our present day remembered bliss. The smoke curls away soon to be forgotten.

As Eris's journey unfolded, she encountered challenges and obstacles that tested her resolve. She digressed to chaos less often knowing she could always hold her invisible internal amulet inside her heart and know she would survive. Once again with the indefatigable burn of acceptance as her guiding light. She faced each trial or conundrum with a newfound sense of acquiescence stippled with the stamina of grit. After all it seems just the kind old gentleman was right in his teachings. She learned to trust in the wisdom of her heart and the power of her spirit. Forging a path of healing and renewal that led her to a place of inner peace and wholeness.

In the end, Eris emerged from the depths of her fears, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of Troy. Transformed and renewed by the transmuted burn of acceptance. to be discovered and continually opened as a present. Her own private shiny island in a sea of despair rescuing hope and empowerment, but always leading her toward a brighter future filled with possibilities and promise.

As to her sister Discordia, well that's a different story altogether. Probably best left for another time. Some say they bump into her now and then, wondering why she's living out a epicurean lifestyle like a wayward hippie. They chortle to themselves as they pick themselves up and brush off any Thermopylae still stuck on their clothes. Of course, by that time the pushy Cyclops Discordia had taken off like she ran a Marathon. No, my friends, this story shall confine itself to her older sister Eris, who began this story in the first place.

And so, the tale of Eris and the contrite but wayward Discordia comes not to an end. But, let this remind us of another Magical Tale of triumph and tragedy of the never-ending story of the “burn of acceptance”. Doomed to live on forever a residing impermeable yet tangible life-ring to be thrown for your next inevitable emergency. Occasionally, if you listen closely, you can still hear the whispered knowing winks and hushed gazes of those who comprehend the true power in embodying life's challenges. Its all about a graduàl consistent redundancy of a more robust beneficial habit in the face of adversity. In the “Burn of Acceptance, a Righteous Burn, Nevertheless, a Deep Burn” lay the metamorphosis needed in unlocking the depths of one's soul and finding the gumption to walk the path of truth and enlightenment.