ALT rainbows with little post it notes. It reads lonely? anxious? Relate to my pain from the comfort of your couch. It's tagged @toomanymargins
ALT ‘(97) Klotho, (120) Lachesis, (273) Atropos’
ALT I. Sitting upon (97) Klotho, I whisper the letters, “A, B, H, T, I, Y,” hoping to commune with the beginning of my fate. The spinning spinster sister has some explaining to do. She has grown tired of elucidating the beginning to me, yet I cannot help but want to go back to the start. Her golden fabric, woven into the fluff of the stars, into the destiny she says, is written for me. I once avoided my relationship with fate. No one is destined for anything but death in the end. Even her asteroid home will disappear someday. I hold her hand as she tells me of my birth, the cataclysm that brought me to fruition, like some grand project without a name. She does not weep like I do, for to her, the beginning of all is the most precious. Klotho sings as she sails and spins, knowing her fate will always be the same. In this, I find no tranquility. She weaves in the womb of her mother, a tenderness many of us will never come to know. I cannot beg her to stop; the wheel stops winding for no one.
ALT II. When Klotho has grown weary of my pleas and weeping, she sends me slithering along that thread. I am suddenly slammed against (120) Lachesis through this meted mass of black and gold. She does not handle life with a delicate hand; mercy does not suit her nimble fingers. Lachesis cradles me in her spider’s web, each convergence a decision I once faced or have yet to face. Here, I lie tangled in anguish. Lachesis can offer no remedy, only clarity. This life will keep moving no matter how often I have been broken. Each new knot feels like a noose around my neck, too tight to escape the reality of being alive. Here on this cold asteroid, Lachesis reminds me that a life without the illusion of choice is simply death in waiting.
ALT III. From her web, I am launched at dizzying speeds, spiraling through the coldest reaches. Arms tangled still in the weight of broken vows and empty promises, hoping to find some recompense at the end. When the stars clear from my whirling eyes, I lay in a silk coffin inside a reliquary. (273) Atropos is a tomb of comfort, wrapping me in thread to bind me together. All the fractured pieces of my spirit conglomerate in her hands, glued together again by her wizened eyes. Atropos has seen the life and death of every star, knows that the grand explosion of a star, the heat death of the universe, is only the beginning of her work. Like a shot of DMT, her glittering scissors show me everything I was meant to be. That while I could not escape fate, I made a damn good show of it.
