No matter how much one plans at life, it is always uncertain. The only certainty in life, is in fact, uncertainty. The heart can flutter in a moment of unknowing. Or take pause with anxiousness of the future. But really there is nothing to be done but to allow time to go on.
The heart makes time, the space between beats can feel like an eternity, or no time at all. So how can we be certain of one minute to the next when all we are relying on is the tick of a charge on a rock, or the beat of a wind up toy, going tick-tock. Is that really time? Hands going round. Or is there a meaning of time that is beyond the electric charge or the cycles around the sun, or the moon around the earth.
Time is something that warps and changes with the perception of each individual’s existence. So how do we keep in time with each other, when some of us are out on a limb hanging on by a thread, with a hopeless feeling that no time is left and all you can do is play catch up. What is the time then? Mr Wolf?
The heart beating to a future that never seems to arrive but only gets further away with each moment. And each time you try to reach for it, it always stays out of grasp. Like that damned carrot hanging at the end of a stick drawing you in, but never within reach.
So let the carrot go, and the blasted rabbit can have it. Because frankly Alice has better things to do that go jumping down rabbit holes, playing cards with angry queens and talking to cats with the smile of a crescent moon.
And Snow White will watch the greys of winter pass, while her step mother loses herself in the glass mirror with the poisoned apple shrivelled dry by the fire place. And her father long lost in battle.
All the other battles not yet won or lost may well just fall by the way side. Because in the end they are all meaningless. Unless your arrow shoots true and the bow is made from sound wood that once bore fruit and thorns. Only then, can a battle have meaning.
Little Red Riding Hood finally let the Wolf have it, for she went to the garden of the Queen of Hearts and found all the roses to be red except one bush. A very old bush with the whitest roses and the thickest thorns she ever did see. She took a stem from the rose bush and fashioned herself a bow. Then made some sturdy arrows from the golden apple tree.
She went deep into the woods and hunted the Wolf down that ate her grandmother. She hunted him for 30 years, stalking his movements, watching him hunt and tracking every step he took. Until one night when the Cheshire Cat was grinning her most brilliant smile high above the tree tops, the Wolf’s howl was cut short with the arrow of an apple tree. Little Red Riding Hood took out a hunting knife, which she stole from the lumberjack when he was lost in a dreamless sleep, and skinned the Wolf then and there where he fell. She hung his carcass on a nearby ash tree, slashed his throat and let the blood drain into a bronze cup.
The cup filled with blood, she took to the Queen of Hearts’s garden and painted the rose bush red, until every rose on the bush was dripping with the Wolf’s blood.
Not a single white rose in the garden.
The following winter no longer was she Little Red Riding Hood, for she was dressed in wolf’s clothing.