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dancing orbits around constellations— this planetarium sky is your world entire.
you come alive when the melody begins to play, each note resonating with the beat of your heart.
yet— what heart do you have that is not brought forth by him?
he created you, after all. wrought you from clay and stone, a tiny figure set inside a music box.
that's all you are. a little porcelain dancer with your wooden vessel painted in the likeness of night. for all intents and purpose, you should not have a heart— cannot have a heart. you cannot speak, for you have no chords. your lips are ashen stone. even your eyes— no, especially your eyes —just two opalescent gems set carefully into your head. your arms are frozen above you, locked in pose mid-dance, perpetually turning on an axis. like copernicus' sun, you spin around a centrifugal force, and the painted planets in turn spin around you. this is your purpose— this, and nothing more.
but time works in mysterious ways, does it not?
they said that to love another person is to see the face of god.
he was so proud of you. called you his magnum opus, his treasure, nei tuoi occhi c’è il cielo. he set you high upon the mantle above his fireplace, next to the urn of his beloved mother. his visitors would gather around you, lift the lid and turn the crank to watch you dance. and dance you did— but not for them. never for them.
you performed for his eyes only. to fulfill the purpose you were brought to life for.
but the years grew long. the hearth, cold. it seemed as if no one wanted handmade artisanal goods anymore. his once-busy shop grew quieter and quieter, dust collecting on his shelves. visitors came less and less, and by the turn of the century he was penniless. forced to sell his crafts for a fraction of their value just to put food on the table.
at last, it was your turn.
the way he looked into your eyes, you'll never forget. the sweetness, the tenderness with which he first made you— it was all there. but there was something different— something sad. his hallowed cheeks, the circles etched underneath his eyes. how many years passed, you wondered. when did he grow so old?
gently, he lifts you from the mantle, turning the crank slowly, deliberately.
he says nothing. the melody fills in the silence as you begin to dance for him,
one
l a s t
t i m e
you don't know how many years it's been. you've passed through the hands of so many generations you can't even begin to count. yet it all ends up the same way— in the window of some pawn shop, where you watch the crowds pass by in the streets. but sometimes a visitor comes by, enticed by the ornate design of your box. they open the lid, gently winding you up. the song etched into your memory begins to play as time seems to melt away—
─── and the stars turn o n c e a g a i n.
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