The Hanged Man

“Omne Uno Implicitur, Quod Non Attingitur Ipsum.”

A path forks into a myriad of potential selves. A knight sits at the crossroads, contemplating which version of vimself to become.

“Hi,” I say. “Hello,” vhe replies.

“Don’t you grow tired, endlessly sweating in that armor?” I dare. “No,” ve replies.

“I let that armor outgrow ve. I am the armor,” ve says; ver voice tastes like steel.

“But what if you could be more?” I ask. “I don’t want to be more. I want to be less,” ve replies.

“Less?” I ask, puzzled. “Yes. Less. Less of this endless struggle to be something I’m not,” vhe says, vis great helm glinting with a strange light.

“You’ve probably seen many lost travelers. Which way do they go?” I ask. “There’s only one way, really,” ve replies.

“Can you guess which way that is?” ve asks, a grin finding a home on ver face.

“You assume paths are linear. What if they’re not?” I say. “Then I guess I’m already on the right path,” ve replies.

“Then why are you here?” I grumble. “To find out,” vhe says.

“Find out what?” I ask. “Find out where the right path leads,” ve replies.

“But you’re just sitting there,” I say. “We all move through time, regardless of whether we walk or sit,” ve replies.

“But you’re not going anywhere,” I say. “I don’t have to. Anywhere is already close to ve. I’ll wait,” ve replies.

“You don’t make any sense!” I say, frustrated. “Maybe not. But I’m fine with that. You’re the scar of a feather in this story, not ve,” vhe replies, the sky turning a deep indigo.

"We wanted to be,
What we've never been before,
But are we tired of the living?
Are we tired of the war?"

ver voice echoes as I slowly walk away, leaving the knight to vis eternal vigil.