Out of the ruins

One morning, after a deep and dreamless sleep for what seemed like a hundred long and winding years, I woke up to the bright sunshine, the smell of roses, and a man’s familiar voice that reminded me of goodnight wishes and a particular song. I, in a torpid state, was at first confused, for I thought I would never see him again. But I blinked my eyes and looked harder, and indeed, there he was, looking exactly like the last time I saw him, a hundred years ago.

I looked around, seeing the ruins around me, ruins of a union that had toppled over due to an unnecessary declaration of war, and realized that the battle had been totally unfounded, and that the premise of the war was grossly untrue.


As the waves of guilt and remorse washed over me, I could not even look him straight in the eye, didn't know how to begin asking for forgiveness. My mind went back to everything that had happened, and then, little by little, like tiny slivers of light coming into view, clarity came. And I knew then that, like the archetypes of our psyche that have been true for as long as anyone can remember, he is someone I can never live without. And though we might live among the ruins for now, eventually, with forgiveness and sheer hope and sincere love, we can always build something new from the old foundations that will always, always be there.

And so it goes that fairy tales don’t always end the usual way, and they are not always over when we think they are. For even when we behold something that has already crumbled to the ground, there is always, always something -- maybe a token, or a magic spell, or stardust -- that carries the entire fairy tale with it in a grain of a promise, and keeps it there, ready to be unleashed in the future as something stronger, more magical, more magnificent. And out of the ruins, something even more beautiful can live again.

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