s.arachne

What exactly is it to write? What is writing?

Am I Arachne, to be punished for my sin of creation? For pride in my creation? Perhaps I assume too much authority. But this is not creation. It is the manipulation of stories that have been lived and lied through. Surely I will not receive her punishment for sins I didn’t commit.

You, plastic mirror, reach for my face and tell me that my path is meant to follow the one she forged. I laugh at you. Arachne is not real. Her trail is nowhere. It begins and ends in someone’s silly oral tale, and I have nothing to fear.

But, I am like her, like the brothers and sisters I look at with my green-tinted glasses. The prized weaver. Arachne did not create. She manipulated spools of yarn, her stories, and beautified them as I beautify my strings of words. Her smart fingers were her escape, as my smart fingers are mine.

Arachne had a kind fate. She never lost her love, her passion. Arachne was cursed to lose herself, lose what she loved, but even in her methods of cruel punishment was Athena flawed. Arachne, sweet spider, was given fingers better than hers blessed since birth and more eyes to focus on the skillful movements of her strings. Her very own yarn, too- silky, perfect for weaving. She got to leave behind the silly thing we call human element. It served only as a distraction from her purpose, her craft.

When one is given a gift, they must use it. Arachne, she followed the will that was placed upon her to the farthest that anyone could in such a regard. Her sons and daughters trail behind her. I crave to be of her children- then, perhaps, divine accomplishment could run through my blood, too. I would fulfill the demands of the voice that calls to me of given responsibility, probably.

I do wonder if Arachne took sadness in her punishment, at her loss of humanity. Or rather she still cackles at her far-off grandchildren that weave their webs across someone’s entrance to their porch. After all, Arachne’s ego made her talent. It was pride that fueled the vigor in her pitiful fingers as she weaved for her life. Perhaps that was the only human aspect that she was permitted to hold onto.