Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Handfasting, Heartbreak, and Hope

A year and a day, this storybook length that serves as the foundation of many romances.  A pagan tradition that allowed people to experiment as a couple to see if they could handle a more substantial commitment to each other.  The 16th of this month would have marked the end.  No untied cord to signal that change just a burning where a person once was.  

A week out and the day before his 30th revolution, I gave him the gift he most wanted. Dissolution.  He long ago discarded my heart in favor of another, but I didn't learn that until after I texted: "Happy Birthday, you are now single."  The coldness of what happened after was shocking.  

So, I burned it all down to feel the warmth again. 

The tarot that I painstakingly learned so I could process the future and salve his current hurts.  In every reading, I tried to touch the divine destiny, fill it with hope and love, and unravel the links between the cards.  I reminded him to connect his heart to greater spiritual good and to get in touch with that which drives him. Such a deck becomes impregnated with love for the magic that felt like us.  That magic gone trapped within the paper had to be freed so one card at a time starting with the world and ending in the magician they entered the fire. I wept bitterly at the fool and the lovers because in me lived both.

The meaningless baubles followed after. They gleamed a dark rainbow of metal forged.  A mantra: "I steel myself against the pinning for a man that never existed."  The kindness I knew, was only the indicia tempering the man who proclaimed: "I am not a good man." Believing that all of us were good, I never acknowledged the darkness that welled within him.  Since high was increasingly the only boundary of time, the emptiness of soul had ample room to fester.  

Then I burned the book.  He believed that he was Kvothe chasing the wind but mostly he was tilting at windmills, delusionally heroic against monsters of his own making.  The goodness I knew, came from Patrick Rothfuss, and could never sustain as his own.  His studies and time at University had deteriorated into self-loathing and anger. Unlike Kvothe, who adored Denna through her misadventures and survival, my world was punctured with deep jealousy for any work that brought me joy.  I couldn't say the word Eclipse without the emergence of his shadow-self bitter that such paths led me to my current happiness.  I released this book. Her pages on fire become shades of white, grey and black dancing against the winds silent songs. A fiction is all we ever were.  

As Rothfuss wrote, “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” 

I have weathered the stormy seas and the deep moonless night. A lightning flash of why these two paths collided so briefly, I the opposite of indecision a mirror of that trait so desired. He, the self-loathing, I so feared in myself who taught me this is not who I am.   

In the days that followed, I became the wind to make gentle the anger that rose within me. Deep breaths into wisdom and still a dose of fear, has marked this ending.  Now I have a heart untangled from anxiety and hate that so plagued his waking hours. A story no longer read in his voice must be finished on my own.  

Here we find sincere gratitude for those who didn't wish to see me sinking. 

But mostly, I remain with a heart full of hope for it still loves, even after this chronicle.    

Monsoon Madness

Modern Myths